THE  RED  COLONEL 


B1W,  DP  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOfl  ANGEMS 


"Vesta  noted  .  .  .  that  he  was  the  same  who  had  accosted  her." 

[PAGE   34.] 


THE 

RED   COLONEL 


BY 

GEORGE  EDGAR 


ILLUSTRATED 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 

1913 


OoPTtlUHT, 

».  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING 
PAGE 

"Vesta  noted  .  .  .  that  he  was  the  same  who  had  ac- 
costed her."  Frontispiece 

"Quickly  ...  he  unlocked  the  chambers  and  emptied 
the  cartridges  on  to  the  table" 16 

"The  man  felt  the  cold  barrel  of  a  revolver  at  his 
temple"  244 

"His  eyes  wandered  over  the  girl's  face.  Bold,  dark, 
cunning,  their  glance  seemed  to  carry  a  message."  274 


THE   RED  COLONEL 


CHAPTER    I 

THE  Black  Lion  at  Missingham,  a  village  in 
Bucks,  is  a  small  hotel  standing  on  the  main 
road.  A  black  lion,  rampant,  has  creaked 
there  on  the  weather-beaten  signpost  since  the  days  of 
Cromwell. 

Each  morning,  a  few  of  the  village  people  go  to  the 
hotel  and  talk  over  the  affairs  of  the  many  who  are 
absent.  There,  you  may  learn  who  has  run  away  with 
his  neighbor's  wife,  the  latest  bankruptcy,  what  the 
vicar  said  to  the  drunken  poacher,  or  Missingham's 
private  opinion  of  the  Prime  Minister  and  the  Govern- 
ment's Foreign  Policy. 

The  Black  Lion  is  a  building  of  a  dusky,  red  brick 
color,  with  a  gabled  frontage.  The  hotel  has  always 
prided  itself  on  an  ability  to  offer  good  accommoda- 
tion for  man  and  beast  but,  in  these  days,  the  beast 
does  not  amount  to  much.  The  square  stable  yard, 
harbor  for  gigs  and  chaises  of  another  generation,  is 
now  a  garage.  Trim  young  men  in  uniform,  and  the 
scent  of  petrol,  have  ousted  straw-chewing,  lean- jawed 
men  in  corduroy  and  the  homely  smell  of  stables. 

Missingham  is  a  sleepy  village  with  one  main  street 
— this  last  a  part  of  the  London  road.  It  is  a  place 
very  human  in  all  its  ways,  packed  away  in  a  valley 

1 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


and  bounded  picturesquely  by  the  gently  rolling  Chil- 
tern  Hills.  Missingham  is  conservative  of  habit, 
thought  and  appearance.  Nothing  changes  there  and 
no  one  wants  change,  beyond  a  cattle  show  trip  to  Lon- 
don once  a  year.  Thirteenth-century  cottages,  with 
green,  moss-covered  roofs,  linger,  secure  from  defile- 
ment at  the  hands  of  the  jerry  builder.  Old  traditions 
are  still  vital  in  the  minds  of  the  inhabitants.  A  man 
who  cannot  show  a  relationship  with  the  village,  ex- 
tending over  three  generations,  is  a  stranger.  The 
very  cottagers  speak  of  their  grandfathers,  and  the 
grandfathers  before  them,  as  occupying  the  same 
hovels.  When  Mr.  Geoffrey  Brassbound,  a  London  so- 
licitor, after  twenty  years'  residence  in  Missingham, 
essayed  to  become  a  Parish  Councillor,  a  yokel  made  a 
speech  recommending  another  man  who  belonged  to 
the  place  and  deprecating  the  interference  in  local  af- 
fairs of  outsiders  who  had  only  just  come  to  the  vil- 
lage. Missingham  attempts  nothing  rash  and  watches 
every  detail  of  its  own  routine  very  closely.  An  in- 
tense curiosity  on  the  part  of  every  soul  in  the  short- 
comings of  the  rest  of  the  population  is  the  one  last- 
ing, dominant,  public  interest. 

In  the  Black  Lion  on  a  particular  morning  in  No- 
vember a  few  years  ago  this  public  interest  was  finding 
expression. 

Round  the  fire  in  the  square  smoke-room  sat  five  men. 
Each  man  stood  for  the  trade  of  the  village.  They 
were  relaxing  from  strenuous  intimacy  with  the  com- 
mercial life  of  the  country,  over  vessels  containing 
varied  but  suitable  eleven  o'clock  refreshment,  all  al- 
coholic. 

t 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


"I  don't  know  what  you  men  think,"  said  Ramus 
Sturt,  the  grocer;  "but  I  can't  make  him  out.  I  re- 
member Wayside  Lodge  and  everybody  who  has  lived 
in  it  during  my  time,  but  these  people  cap  the  lot. 
Reg'lar  mysteries  to  me,  they  are." 

"What's  wrong  with  them?"  asked  Isaac  Broad- 
leigh,  the  landlord  of  the  Black  Lion.  "Don't  they 
pay?" 

"Oh!  yes;  they  pay  all  right,"  Tim  Shepstone,  the 
butcher,  answered.  "There's  no  trouble  that  way.  But 
they  are  the  same  as  everybody  else,  only  different." 

"How?"  asked  the  landlord. 

"That's  where  you  have  me,"  Tim  said,  solemnly. 
"All  I  can  say  is — they're  mysteries — especially  him. 
She's  all  right — quite  the  lady,  she  is.  A  stunner  in 
looks,  too.  She  has  all  the  female  'nuts'  pining  away 
when  it  comes  to  looks.  But  him — well,  I  don't  get  him 
right,  anyway." 

"But  why?"  persisted  the  landlord. 

"Why — that's  the  point,"  said  John  Abrahams,  the 
house  agent.  "Tim's  right — they  are  mysteries.  I  let 
'em  the  house,  and  I've  thought  that  since  I  first  saw 
him.  He  wouldn't  give  references  like  an  ordinary 
man.  I  was  going  to  choke  him  off  and  would  have 
done  so,  but  we'd  had  the  Lodge  empty  for  twelve 
months.  Sir  Thomas  Digley's  agent  was  getting 
crusty  about  it.  And  what  could  I  say  when,  instead  of 
references,  he  offered  me  a  year's  rent  in  advance.  I 
took  him — and  there  they  are." 

"Well,"  said  Harry  Tompkinson,  the  plumber,  a 
florid,  genial  man.  "My  motto  is — speak  of  people  as 
you  find  'em.  All  I  know  of  'em  is — they've  been  all 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


right  to  me,  and  that's  more  than  I  can  say  of  some 
people  who  were  born  here.  I've  worked  for  the  Lodge 
and  they've  treated  me  white.  What  they  owe,  they 
pay — and  quickly.  But  he's  nervous — there's  no  error 
about  that.  You  should  see  the  locks  I  put  on  every 
door  and  the  catches  on  the  windows.  He'll  just  try 
anything  that  looks  like  a  burglar  alarm.  Man,  you'd 
think  he  had  the  Bank  of  England  in  the  Lodge,  the 
way  he  guards  it.  But  the  old  chap  has  been  all  right 
to  me — his  money  is,  anyway — and  that  young  Miss 
Copeland  is  a  thoroughbred." 

"Well — that's  the  how  of  it,"  Sturt  began  again, 
insistently.  "They  may  be  all  right  and  they  may  not 
when  you  know  'em,  but  no  one  does  know  'em.  The 
vicar  told  me,  himself,  he  called  six  times  and  they  were 
not  at  home  each  time.  No  one  calls  there  now,  be- 
cause they  never  call  back.  And  nobody  has  been  in- 
side that  house  since  they  came,  barring  Harry  here, 
who  put  in  the  burglar  alarms.  I  call  them  queer." 

"Yes,  that's  right,"  Tim  Shepstone  agreed.  "No- 
body knows  nothing  about  'em,  and  they  don't  seem  to 
want  us  to,  either.  You  hardly  ever  see  the  old  man 
out  of  his  own  grounds,  except  for  an  hour  each  morn- 
ing, or,  more  often,  at  dark.  They  never  go  anywhere 
by  train  and  no  one  ever  visits  them.  I  don't  think 
they  ever  speak  to  any  one,  except " 

He  stopped  and  winked  salaciously  at  the  company, 
and  the  others  all  nodded  significantly,  as  the  gossips 
of  Missingham  do  when  they  speak  of  men  and 
women. 

"Except  the  schoolmaster's  young  man,"  Shepstone 
continued.  "He's  all  right  at  the  Lodge,  anyhow." 

4 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"My  opinion  is,  he's  sweet  on  the  girl,"  leered  Abra- 
hams. 

"I  saw  them  coming  along  the  top  fields  at  dusk  last 
night,"  Harry  Tompkinson  said,  smirking  into  a  mug 
of  beer.  "She  wasn't  half  telling  him  the  tale." 

"And  he  calls  there  often,"  Sturt  said,  with  a  nod 
meant  to  be  significant.  "I  saw  young  Waring  com- 
ing out  of  Wayside  only  a  week  ago." 

The  conversation  languished  here  through  sheer  lack 
of  initiative.  The  company  at  the  Black  Lion  looked 
at  each  other,  smiled,  winked,  nodded  and  turned 
unanimously  to  the  important  business  of  refreshment. 

Isaac  Broadleigh  had  risen  and  walked  to  the  bay 
window.  He  gazed  up  the  village  street  and  down  it, 
from  the  leaded  panes.  He  whistled  a  few  bars  of  a 
once  popular  song  that  saw  its  zenith  twenty  years 
ago,  as  a  man  may  do  who  has  a  mind  free  from  pre- 
occupation. Then,  suddenly,  the  melody  was  arrested 
in  its  flow.  Isaac  was  looking  down  the  village  street 
with  obvious  interest. 

"Speaking  of  the  devil,"  he  said,  ponderously,  "here 
he  comes." 

"Aye — there  he  is,  sure  enough,"  Shepstone  agreed, 
rushing  to  the  window. 

Forthwith,  the  rest  of  the  company  joined  the  two 
in  the  roomy  bay  and  peered  through  the  little  panes 
of  leaded  glass. 

A  city  man,  accustomed  to  the  curiosities  of  busy 
streets,  would  have  expected  something  very  unusual. 
The  arrival  of  a  circus ;  the  processional  progress  of  a 
member  of  the  royal  family,  or,  at  least,  a  lord  mayor ; 
the  possible  injury  of  some  citizen,  by  accident;  a 

5 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


street  fight,  or  the  graceful  passage  of  some  well- 
known  beauty  might,  in  a  city,  have  separately  ac- 
counted for  such  an  unanimous  display  of  interest. 

Undoubtedly  the  company  assembled  at  the  Black 
Lion  were  interested — as  fully  interested  as  townspeo- 
ple might  be  watching  a  pageant — yet  all  they  saw  was 
one  aged  man. 

And  yet,  squarely  examined,  this  old  man  was  inter- 
esting. There  was  personality  about  him — character, 
atmosphere,  the  quality  of  commanding  attention,  or 
whatever  you  choose  to  call  it. 

The  gossips  saw  a  man  about  sixty-four,  known  to 
them  as  Paul  Copeland.  He  walked  with  a  distinct 
stoop.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  pavement.  A  stick 
he  carried  was  used  to  tap  the  stone  edge  of  the  para- 
pet. He  seemed  concentrated  on  tapping  every  yard 
of  it,  with  the  fidelity  of  the  railway  servant  who 
sounds  the  wheels  of  express  trains  for  flaws. 

He  wore  a  silk  hat,  very  shabby,  and  the  furred  nap 
of  which  was,  in  parts,  brushed  the  wrong  way.  His 
frock  coat,  cut  out  of  a  dark  blue  fabric,  was  of  an 
antique  pattern  and  closely  buttoned.  His  linen  col- 
lar was  worn  low,  and  a  thin  black  bow  was  knotted  un- 
derneath it.  His  trousers  were  tight  and  gave  his  legs 
a  spidery,  fragile  appearance.  The  boots  he  wore  were 
also  of  an  old  pattern,  having  no  ornamentation. 
Made  very  plain,  they  were  elastic  sided,  and  gave  to 
the  feet  a  suggestion  of  military  primness.  Somewhat 
faded  he  looked  at  first  sight,  a  gaunt,  bent,  rusty 
shadow;  the  kind  of  man  one  thinks  of  as  moving 
through  life,  without  being  of  it.  The  effect  such  a 
man  has  on  the  passer-by  is  precisely  the  impression 

6 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


created  by  an  undertaker  at  a  funeral.  One  does  not 
see  him  and  yet  you  are  always  conscious  of  his  pres- 
ence. Self-effacing,  unobtrusive,  in  the  background, 
he  moves  in  such  a  way  that  one  feels  he  is  the  most 
vigilant  watcher  present,  seeing  the  detail  of  the  sur- 
rounding drama  of  life  as  it  is  to  be  observed  through 
a  microscope. 

What  was  odd  about  Paul  Copeland?  Certainly 
nothing  about  his  bent  figure,  for  many  old  men  are 
bent.  His  clothes,  of  good  quality,  but  old-fashioned, 
were  not  sufficient  to  bespeak  attention.  The  tap,  tap 
of  the  iron  ferrule  of  his  stick  upon  the  stone  curb  was 
arresting,  but  not  unusual.  Old  men  often  have  this 
action.  They  seem  to  be  ticking  off  impressions  of 
their  lives,  day  by  day,  with  a  determination  to  recall 
the  full  total  of  their  recollections. 

No — the  odd  thing  about  this  man  was  his  face. 
Have  you  ever  seen  a  live  man's  face  that  looked  as  if 
it  were  dead?  That  would  describe  this  man's  face. 
Long  and  lean  it  was ;  yellow  as  the  parchment  of  an 
old  will;  crinkled,  faded,  colorless.  One  eye  was  sight- 
less. Where  the  eye  should  have  been  was  a  puckered 
slit  in  the  skin,  a  little  discolored.  You  thought  of 
that  eye  as  having  been  torn  out,  violently,  in  some 
ruthless  moment  of  brutality.  The  other  eye  was  a 
pale,  cold,  shining  gray.  It  had  a  frozen  brightness,  a 
wintry  glaring  brightness,  giving  the  impression  of  an 
eye  bent  on  watching  everything  without  taking  pleas- 
ure in  any  sight  it  saw.  The  nose  had  a  sharp  lengthj 
with  wide,  distended  nostrils.  The  long,  thin  lips  had 
sunk  a  little ;  missing  the  support  of  absent  teeth.  The 
lips  were  colorless  and  dry.  The  face  was  clean 

7 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


shaven.  The  big  silk  hat  came  low  down  on  to  the 
head  and  seemed  to  rest  on  the  sunken  nape  of  the 
neck.  The  little  hair  exposed  to  view  was  closely 
cropped  and  of  iron  gray.  The  whole  effect  of  the 
face  was  exceptional.  It  made  one  think  of  a  yellow 
mask,  left  to  shrivel  and  fade  in  the  mildewed  atmos- 
phere of  a  dusty  property  room  of  some  old-fash- 
ioned theater.  Although  one  eye  gleamed  and  proved 
life  was  in  the  brain  behind  the  mask,  the  face  made  the 
observer  think  of  the  withered  shell  of  a  dead  head — 
of  a  head  long  dead,  and  resurrected,  to  be  examined 
with  the  same  shudder  of  horror  one  gives  when  gazing 
into  the  stark  features  of  a  mummy. 

Such  a  man  passed  down  the  main  street  of  Missing- 
ham  in  the  sunlight  of  a  frosty  November  morning. 

He  would  have  passed  like  a  shadow,  in  the  ordinary 
way,  as,  many  times,  he  had  passed  before — merely 
exciting  the  usual  comment. 

As  the  gossiping  traders  looked  through  the  little 
panes  of  glass,  in  the  Black  Lion's  windows,  the  man 
who  held  their  attention  was  walking  on,  with  his  single 
eye  fixed  upon  the  ferrule  of  his  stick  as  it  tapped  the 
stone  curb. 

A  man  shambled  toward  him,  in  the  center  of  the 
road.  No  one  would  have  looked  at  the  stranger  twice. 
He  was  dressed  in  the  fashion  of  maimed  sailors  who 
beg  in  public  places,  and  presented  a  burly  figure,  in 
blue  jersey,  with  white  duck  pants.  One  knitted  sleeve 
of  the  jersey  flapped  empty  and  was  tucked  loosely  in 
the  man's  belt.  He  came  in  the  opposite  direction, 
walking  with  the  easy  swing  of  the  tramp,  not  look- 
ing to  right  or  left.  He  passed  Paul  Copeland,  the 

8 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


object  of  the  live  attention  of  the  villagers — passed, 
without  apparently  even  observing  him.  His  progress 
was  only  noted  by  the  watchers,  in  the  same  sense  that 
an  observer  would  note  the  shadow  of  a  bat,  flitting 
through  the  moonlight. 

But  the  watchers  in  the  bay  of  the  Black  Lion  win- 
dow had  something  definite  on  which  to  whet  their 
curiosity  that  morning. 

Paul  Copeland  suddenly  stopped  in  his  progress. 
He  brought  himself  up  sharply  with  the  swaying  mo- 
tion of  a  man  whose  diseased  heart  has  received  a  shock 
and  for  a  second  or  two  has  ceased  to  beat,  leaving 
the  frame  it  animates  with  the  sense  of  suffocating 
finality  expressed  by  breathlessness,  dizziness  and  the 
horrible  feeling  a  man  has  sometimes  of  losing  touch 
with  the  only  real  things  he  knows.  For  a  moment  or 
two,  thus  arrested,  Copeland  stood  there,  swaying  in 
the  sunlight.  Then,  suddenly,  he  recovered  and  turned 
round.  He  watched  the  begging  sailor  walk  down  the 
center  of  the  sleepy  street.  His  dead  face  seemed 
alive  with  shocked  surprise.  The  muscles  of  the  puck- 
ered slit  in  the  yellow  cheekbone,  where  once  had  been 
an  eye,  quivered  as  they  must  have  done  when  that  eye 
was  torn  out.  The  one  eye  in  the  mask  of  a  face  fol- 
lowed the  retreating  figure  apparently  held  as  if  hyp- 
notized. The  pale,  vigilant  pupil  was  dilated  with 
terror. 

At  that  moment,  Paul  Copeland  became  conscious  of 
his  surroundings.  He  crossed  the  street  with  an  un- 
steady motion,  and  for  the  first  time  walked  into  the 
Black  Lion. 

He  stood  staring  and  blinking  in  the  smoke  room, 

9 


against  the  bar,  Missingham's  curious  tradesmen  now 
silent,  watching  him — astonished  at  the  man's  unusual 
presence  in  their  midst. 

"Brandy,"  Copeland  said,  in  a  voice  devoid  of  color, 
though  not  of  a  hint  of  agitation;  "a  stiff  dose  of 
brandy.  As  quick  as  you  can — I  am  ill." 

Rose,  Hebe  to  Missingham's  critics  at  the  Black 
Lion,  swiftly  placed  a  four-finger  peg  before  him. 

Copeland  poured  a  little  water  into  the  spirit,  the 
jug  clattering  against  the  rim  of  the  glass. 

Raising  the  tumbler,  he  swallowed  the  fluid  greedily 
as  if  it  were  liquid  life. 

"God!"  he  mumbled,  with  a  gasp,  for  the  strong 
spirit  had  caught  his  breath.  He  was  almost  unaware 
of  the  presence  of  any  one  but  himself.  "The  Red 
Colonel  at  last,"  he  added,  in  a  whisper. 

Copeland  seemed  suddenly  to  recall  himself  to  a  rela- 
tionship with  his  surroundings.  He  fumbled  in  his 
pocket  and  at  length  put  down  a  coin  upon  the  bar 
top  and  left  without  taking  up  his  change,  or  saying  a 
single  word  implying  the  recognition  of  other  folk 
about  him. 

As  he  went  unsteadily  down  the  village  street,  the 
gossips  watched  his  progress,  through  the  tiny  win- 
dow panes,  their  surprise  gradually  fading  out  the 
farther  he  drew  away. 

"Say  what  you  like,"  said  Shepstone,  speaking  like  a 
man  awakening  from  a  trance,  "I  call  that  queer.  I 
call  it  very  queer." 

"Same  here,"  said  Sturt;  "just  what  I  have  always 
said." 

"You're   right,"  Abrahams   added,   contentedly   re- 

10 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


turning  to  his  tankard.  "I  call  it  queer,  too.  The 
queerest  touch  this  year,  I  reckon." 

"Damned  queer,"  quoth  Isaac  Broadleigh,  nodding 
his  large  head.  "The  damned  queerest  thing  I  ever  did 
see.  Let's  sell  the  pony  for  another  drink." 

They  forgot  Shepstone  as  they  placed  their  coins 
on  the  table. 

Shepstone,  who  was  a  near  man  and  did  not  like  to 
pay,  "showed,"  finally  to  the  landlord,  and  called 
"lady." 

Broadleigh's  lucky  farthing  revealed  the  King's 
head  upturned. 

Shepstone  paid  and  looked  sadly  out  of  the  leaded 
windows  as  a  man  may  look  who  bleeds  internally. 


CHAPTER    II 

WAYSIDE     LODGE      was     a     grim,      square 
Georgian  building  faced  with  white  stone. 
Not  big  enough  to  be  called  a  mansion,  the 
place  was  neither  small  enough  to  be  described  as  a 
cottage. 

The  house  was  roomy  in  a  commonplace,  solid  man- 
lier. The  apartments  were  big  and  lofty,  if  they  did 
not  vary  in  shape.  A  feature  was  the  many  windows 
looking  out  over  a  spacious  lawn,  and  fairly  extensive 
grounds.  The  general  effect  of  the  house  was  forbid- 
ding, an  impression  heightened  perhaps  by  the  new 
tenant's  apparent  preference  for  shuttered,  instead  of 
curtained,  window  spaces.  A  casual  inspection  of  Way- 
side Lodge  suggested  the  house  was  empty.  Usually  no 
sign  of  life,  beyond  the  thin  spiral  of  smoke  ascending 
from  one  of  the  chimneys,  was  observable  by  day.  Even 
at  night  only  one  or  two  windows  discovered  lights  and 
these  gleamed  through  chinks  in  the  closed  shutters. 
In  the  evening  of  the  day  when  Paul  Copeland's  man- 
ner displayed  signs  of  ill-health  to  the  watching  vil- 
lagers of  Missingham,  the  tenant  of  Wayside  Lodge  sat 
alone  in  the  room  he  used  habitually. 

Paul  Copeland's  favorite  apartment  was  a  room 
upon  the  first  floor  called  the  study.  This  room  served 
Copeland  for  almost  every  living  purpose — indeed  he 
had  just  taken  tea  there,  the  tray  remaining  upon  a 
corner  of  the  heavy  mahogany  table.  An  unlighted 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


lamp  stood  In  the  center  of  this  table.  Two  easy 
chairs,  shabby  and  worn,  upholstered  in  horsehair 
after  the  ugly  manner  of  another  generation,  were  be- 
fore the  fire.  A  camp  bedstead  was  in  one  corner  of 
the  room,  provided  with  rugs,  mattress  and  pillow 
ready  for  use.  One  side  of  the  study  was  covered  by 
heavy  book  shelves,  hundreds  of  neglected  volumes  be- 
ing left  there  exposed  to  the  dust.  A  bright  fire  blazed 
in  an  old-fashioned  grate.  The  room  was  devoid  of 
any  decorative  attempts  to  soften  off  the  stiff  angu- 
larities of  the  architecture.  No  pictures  were  dis- 
played upon  the  wall.  In  a  rack  hung  a  gun  with  a 
repeating  action  and  two  heavy  revolvers  of  the  army 
type,  the  blue  metal  looking  sinister  and  ugly  against 
the  gray,  distempered  wall.  A  plain  traveler's  clock 
occupied  the  center  of  the  mantelpiece  in  the  midst 
of  a  litter  of  books  and  pamphlets  relating  to  steam- 
ship and  railway  services.  The  whole  appearance  of 
the  place  gave  the  impression  that  the  room  had  been 
made  habitable — and  only  just  habitable — by  a  man 
who  foresaw  the  prospect  of  having  to  move  on  sud- 
denly. 

The  oddest  feature  about  the  room  was  the  windows. 
On  the  westerly  side  there  were  two,  surveying  a  por- 
tion of  the  lawn  and  looking  directly  on  to  the  road, 
that  side  of  the  room  being  parallel  to  it.  They  were 
not  only  heavily  shuttered  but  barred.  On  the  side  of 
the  room  looking  south  was  a  pair  of  French  windows 
opening  on  to  a  balcony.  Through  these  windows  an- 
other view  of  the  lawn  was  commanded  and  the  road  to 
the  village  could  be  seen  for  a  full  half  mile.  This 
double  window  was  fitted  with  heavy  bolts  but,  by  rea- 

13 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


son  of  the  expanse  of  glass  and  the  balcony  outside, 
was  evidently  more  vulnerable  than  any  other  approach 
to  the  house. 

In  his  home,  Paul  Copeland  looked  perhaps  a  more 
remarkable  man  than  he  was,  judged  by  the  externals 
exhibited  to  the  villagers.  He  wore  a  shabby,  quilted 
smoking  coat,  reaching  to  his  knees,  that  accentuated 
the  stoop  of  his  body  and  the  fragility  of  his  physique. 
The  long,  lean,  dead  face  was  surmounted  by  a  black 
skull  cap.  The  contrast  between  the  texture  and  color 
of  the  cap  and  the  yellowing,  crinkled  skin  made  the 
face  look  more  like  aging  parchment  than  ever.  As 
he  sat  huddled  in  a  chair  before  the  fire,  seen  from  the 
left  or  blind  side  of  his  face,  where  the  empty  socket 
became  a  discolored  slit,  between  the  cheek  bone  and 
brow,  the  suggestion  of  death  became  more  acute  until 
Copeland  moved  and  one  saw  the  living,  gray  eye 
staring  fixedly  with  all  its  wintry  brightness. 

The  hour  was  about  five  o'clock.  What  light  there 
had  been  was  rapidly  failing.  Where  the  sun  had  set 
in  the  glowering  western  sky  was  an  angry  red  splash 
of  waning  color.  The  night  was  coming  quickly  and 
deepening  the  gray  twilight.  A  wind  was  rising;  the 
growing  breeze  whining  sadly  in  the  trees  and  tossing 
their  bare  branches.  Sometimes  the  developing  gale 
rattled  the  windows  and  occasional  rain,  driven  be- 
fore it,  pattered  upon  the  glass  panes. 

Paul  Copeland  suddenly  rose  and  looked  out  into 
the  oncoming  night.  Afterward  he  walked  to  the 
double  window,  threw  it  open  and  stood  upon  the  bal- 
cony. His  face  was  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  road 
winding  away  to  the  village.  His  single  eye  was  fixed 

14 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


upon  the  dusky  streak  of  macadam  fading  away  in  the 
gloom.  Copeland  looked  a  strange  figure  enough 
standing  there,  the  skirts  of  his  loose  coat  fluttering  in 
the  wind,  that  also  stirred  the  thin,  short  hair  remain- 
ing uncovered  by  the  black  cap.  His  one  glistening 
eye,  apprehensive  as  its  gaze  swept  the  road,  was  the 
only  sign  of  life  or  consciousness  about  the  still  figure. 
Copeland  had  no  thought  for  the  glowering  mystery  of 
the  coming  night,  nor  sentiment  for  the  departing 
glory  of  the  day.  The  face  of  the  man  was  still  ex- 
pressionless. Something  about  the  poise  of  the  body 
and  head  showed  that  he  listened  with  acute,  strained 
attention.  Judged  by  the  persistency  of  the  glance 
directed  to  the  road,  Paul  Copeland  seemed  to  listen  for 
movement  upon  the  highway. 

Copeland  remained  upon  the  balcony  for  a  full  five 
minutes,  obviously  concentrated  on  his  own  thoughts. 
The  last  patch  of  light  in  the  western  sky  faded  out. 
The  road  to  the  village  disappeared  from  view.  The 
approach  to  Wayside  Lodge  quietly  wrapped  itself  in 
darkness  until  the  only  sign  of  the  presence  of  the 
highway  was  the  sound  of  footsteps  upon  the  flinty 
surface. 

When  the  light  had  gone,  Paul  Copeland  returned 
from  the  balcony  to  the  room,  shutting  and  barring 
the  double  windows  behind  him,  and  lighted  the  lamp. 

In  the  room,  he  took  down  the  pair  of  revolvers  and 
eyed  each  one  thoughtfully,  his  sure  handling  of  the 
weapons  showing  accustomed  use.  Quickly,  with  the 
movements  of  an  expert,  he  unlocked  the  chambers  and 
emptied  the  cartridges  in  the  barrels  on  to  the  table. 
This  done,  he  tested  the  action  of  each  pistol.  Ap- 

15 


THE  RED   COLONEL 


patently  satisfied,  he  slipped  the  cartridges  back  into 
the  empty  barrels  and  the  weapons  were  once  more 
hung  upon  the  rack. 

A  soft  knocking  was  heard  upon  the  room  door. 
Preoccupied,  Copeland  hardly  seemed  to  hear  it.  The 
knock  was  not  repeated,  but  the  door  opened.  A  young 
girl,  attired  for  the  outside  world,  entered,  apparently 
assured  of  the  man's  attention  and  interest. 

Vesta  Copeland  was  a  girl  of  about  twenty-three. 
She  was  of  the  dark,  restrained  type  of  beauty  with 
a  slim  figure,  whose  carriage  indicated  considerable 
physical  strength.  For  the  moment,  she  was  clad  in 
a  gray  tweed  walking  costume,  the  coat  but  vaguely 
indicating  the  lines  of  her  strong,  young  shoulders. 
A  brown  hat  of  suede  leather  fitted  low  upon  her  head 
and  hid  the  coils  of  glistening  hair,  black  after  the 
manner  of  the  raven's  plumage.  The  face,  standing 
out  in  perfect  oval  from  under  the  background  of  dark 
suede  as  she  lit  the  lamp,  discovered  unusual  character. 

Although  soft  with  the  roundness  of  youth,  the  face 
was  not  lacking  in  purpose.  The  set  of  the  dark  eyes, 
the  straight  firm  lines  of  the  brows,  the  well-shaped 
nose  with  sensitive,  nervous  nostrils,  and  the  lips, 
slightly  larger  than  a  nice  appreciation  of  beauty 
would  permit,  all  indicated  the  type  of  mental  vigor 
that  expressed  itself  in  action.  There  were  tender- 
ness and  humor  in  this  girl's  face — the  one  quality  ex- 
pressed by  the  mobility  of  the  curving,  highly  sensi- 
tive lips ;  the  other,  by  the  hint  of  laughter  ever  ready 
to  kindle  in  the  bright,  clear  eyes.  The  dark  hair  in 
heavy  coils  gave  the  complexion  something  of  the 
quality  of  ivory.  Closer  appreciation  of  the  more  ex- 

16 


"  Quickly  ...  he  unlocked  the  chambers  and  emptied  the 
cartridges  on  to  the  table." 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


quisite  details  of  an  arresting  young  face  proved  the 
seeming  whiteness  to  be  but  the  pallor  of  contrast. 
The  texture  of  the  skin  suggested  vigor  and  health — 
the  vigor  and  health  apparent  in  those  who  are  physi- 
cally and  mentally  under  sound  control. 

The  carriage  of  Vesta  Copeland's  body  indicated  the 
same  physical  power.  Though  slight  and  graceful  in 
outline,  the  figure  suggested  action  and  exercise.  The 
plain  habit  of  tweed  could  not  entirely  conceal  the 
graceful  curves  of  ample  shoulders,  the  lithe  quality 
of  the  long  waist,  or  the  easy  swing  from  the  hips  as 
she  walked.  Of  average  height,  the  supple,  assured 
carriage  made  Vesta  Copeland  appear  taller  than  she 
really  was  and  the  heavy  walking  costume  served  to 
emphasize  the  impression  she  radiated  of  physical 
strength  and  well-being. 

"I  am  going  out,"  she  said,  brightly,  to  Paul  Cope- 
land. 

"You  will  be  away — how  long?"  he  asked,  slowly. 

"An  hour  at  the  most,"  she  answered. 

He  continued  to  pluck  at  his  lips  with  nervous  fin- 
gers, dividing  his  glance  between  the  healthy,  young 
face  turned  toward  him  and  the  sinister  pair  of  re- 
volvers on  the  wall. 

"Aye — very  good,  little  one,"  Paul  Copeland  said, 
at  last.  "I  cannot  keep  you  cooped  up  always.  But 
do  not  be  away  longer  than  you  can  help.  The  hours 
drag  when  you  are  absent." 

"At  the  outside,  I'll  only  be  an  hour,  Dad," 
she  said,  with  a  laugh.  "You  will  be  all  right  for  an 
hour." 

"I  shall  be  all  right  for  an  hour,"  he  answered. 

17 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


Vesta  was  turning  away,  when  he  spoke  again, 
rapidly. 

"I  guess  you  go  to  meet  that  young  man,  Waring — 
Stanley  Waring,  eh !"  he  suggested,  his  manner  soften- 
ing. 

The  girl  nodded,  frankly. 

"I  suppose  your  interest  in  each  other  is  natural," 
Copeland  went  on,  speaking  to  himself  more  than  to  the 
girl.  "I  cannot  always  drag  you  about  the  world  amid 
the  uneasy  purposes  of  my  wandering  life.  Sometime 
you  will  leave  me  and  find  safe  anchorage.  I  do  not 
know  whether  I  shall  be  glad  or  sorry — glad  to  see  you 
safe  and  happy,  or  sorry  because  I  may  have  to  pass 
on  alone." 

She  looked  at  him,  with  a  quick,  startled  glance  in 
her  dark  eyes. 

"You  said  when  you  came  to  Missingham,  from  that 
dull  corner  in  Spain,  that  you  had  found  sanctuary 
here  in  this  quiet  village.  You  said  our  wanderings 
were  over." 

Paul  Copeland  remained  silent  for  a  minute,  his 
dead  face  masking  his  feelings,  his  one  eye  seeming  to 
look  inward  upon  some  emotion  sternly  controlled. 

"I  was  wrong,"  he  replied,  harshly ;  "I  was  wrong." 

Vesta's  face  showed  the  trouble  in  her  mind. 

"Again — the  shadow  from  which  we  are  always  hid- 
ing," she  began,  quickly.  "Is  the  old  menace  you  dare 
not  face  threatening  us?  Do  we  begin  again — do  we 
set  out  once  more  upon  that  weary,  restless  pilgrim- 
age?" 

Paul  Copeland  stood  in  the  silent  room,  his  head 
sunk  into  his  breast,  his  mind  working  on  an  old 

18 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


problem,  his  nervous  fingers  betraying  the  man's  un- 
rest. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  at  last.  "To-day,  I  saw  the  har- 
binger of  evil.  The  devil  in  my  past  stalked  through 
the  present.  We  must  move,  at  once." 

"When?"  the  girl  asked. 

"To-morrow — or  the  day  after." 

Vesta's  eyes  filled  with  unusual  emotion. 

"Can  you  not  see  how  hard  this  will  be  for  me  ?"  she 
asked.  "I  thought  we  had  found  peace  here  in  Miss- 
ingham.  I  thought  we  might  live  as  other  people  do. 
And  I  have  found  love  here  in  this  village.  My  heart, 
my  life  is  not  wholly  yours.  I  want  to  stay." 

Paul  Copeland  looked  with  his  unwearied  one  eye 
upon  the  girl,  but  its  wintry  glance  had  softened.  Im- 
possible to  say  what  emotions  strove  behind  the  dead 
mask  of  his  still  face.  Some  indication  of  his  feelings 
was  perhaps  afforded  by  his  next  action.  He  walked 
toward  the  girl  and  patted  her  shoulders  with  a  rough 
display  of  affection. 

"There — little  girl,"  he  said,  speaking  as  a  man  may 
who  thrusts  away  uneasy  thoughts.  "Leave  me,  now. 
Go  to  that  lover  of  yours ;  better  company  by  far  than 
an  old  man  always  the  prey  of  his  own  fears.  Perhaps 
this  time  there  may  be  a  way  out.  You  have  been  a 
loyal  friend  to  me,  little  one.  Maybe,  I  did  not  see 
what  I  thought  I  saw.  Or  perhaps,  if  my  eye  did  not 
deceive  me,  I  can  meet  the  new  danger  alone.  But 
there — go  to  your  lover.  Leave  me  to  think  out  what 
I  judge  to  be  advisable  and  make  the  most  of  your  time 
now." 

The  girl  walked  toward  the  door  to  do  his  bidding. 

19 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


Paul  Copeland  stopped  her  before  she  left  the  room. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  "you  were  saying  this 
youngster,  Waring,  talks  of  marriage.  Does  all  go 
well  with  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  a  flush  upon  her  white  cheek. 
"He  is  pressing  me  for  permission  to  ask  for  your  con- 
sent." 

Copeland  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

"I  like  this  lad,"  he  said,  at  last.  "Bring  him  in  to- 
night. I  think  I  see  a  way  out.  Bring  him  in  and  let 
me  have  a  chat  with  the  lad." 

Vesta  nodded  slightly  as  she  left  the  room,  pleasure 
glowing  in  her  bright  eyes.  For  the  first  time  the  man 
she  called  father  had  displayed  an  interest  in  the  man 
who  now  commanded  her  affections.  She  hoped  much 
from  their  meeting  on  a  cordial  basis,  and  remember- 
ing the  past,  amid  the  quiet  joy  Copeland's  message 
had  created,  there  was  a  chilly  undercurrent  of  fear, 
mingled  with  the  pleasure  in  her  glowing  mind. 

Paul  Copeland  remained  in  the  solitary  study,  alone. 
He  heard  the  door  closed  as  Vesta  left  the  house — 
and,  listening,  followed  the  movements  of  the  only 
domestic  as  she  went  about  her  work.  He  sat  on, 
looking  absently  into  the  fire,  his  face  enigmatic  and 
emotionless,  for  the  best  part  of  half  an  hour.  He 
seemed  to  be  pondering  some  complex  problem — a 
problem  without  any  available  solution,  the  burden  it 
involved  weighing  heavily  on  his  mind.  At  last,  and 
after  the  best  part  of  an  hour,  he  stirred  into  life 
again.  Bending  over  the  fire,  he  broke  up  the  slum- 
bering coals  until  they  blazed  riotously.  Standing, 
his  figure  seemed  to  stiffen  as  if  his  mind  had  decided 

20 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


definitely  on  some  course  of  action.  Walking  to  the 
rack  where  the  two  grim  revolvers  hung,  he  took  one, 
looked  along  its  barrel,  and  seemed  to  be  sighting  a 
visible  enemy. 

"So  the  Red  Colonel  comes  again,"  he  said,  at  last. 
"I  am  an  old  man.  The  end  is  not  far.  My  feeble 
life  is  grown  too  weak  for  fear  and  of  such  little  value 
that  it  demands  no  sacrifice  for  protection.  If  the 
Red  Colonel  appear  again,  he  will  find  me  waiting  for 
him." 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  words,  his  attention  suddenly 
became  riveted  on  a  sound  outside. 

In  the  darkness,  some  one  was  whistling  two  odd 
bars  of  music  with  shrill  insistence. 

Even  above  the  wailing  of  the  breeze,  the  notes 
struck  the  ear  with  a  clean-cut  distinctness.  At  the 
end  of  two  bars,  the  whistling  suddenly  stopped. 

Paul  Copeland  stood  motionless,  listening — stood 
until  he  only  heard  the  raging  of  the  wind.  His  one 
vigilant  eye  showed  a  dilated  pupil,  the  color  of  his 
face  was  a  shade  more  pale,  his  whitened  lips  trembled 
slightly. 

"The  Red  Colonel  calls,"  he  said  slowly,  the  words 
leaving  his  lips  as  if  they  were  being  choked  from 
between  the  clenched  teeth. 

After  a  grim  interval  of  half  a  minute,  the  whistled 
notes  began  again.  Shrill  and  clear,  they  repeated 
the  same  two  bars  of  music.  This  time  the  sound  ap- 
peared to  be  nearer.  The  man  responsible  for  the 
fluted  call  might  have  been  standing  on  the  lawn  under 
the  balcony  windows. 

Swaying  unsteadily,  Paul  Copeland  walked  toward 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


the  lamp  and  turned  out  the  light.  Then,  clutching 
one  of  the  heavy  revolvers,  he  stood  in  the  corner  of 
the  room,  commanding  the  French  windows. 

The  whistled  notes  again  shrilled.  When  they  ended 
all  was  silent,  save  for  the  waxing  or  waning  volume 
of  sound  made  by  the  breeze.  Paul  Copeland,  listen- 
ing intently,  heard  a  footstep  crunch  on  the  gravel 
path  bordering  the  lawn  and  something  like  an  ex- 
clamation that  might  have  been  derisive  laughter. 

A  moment  later  a  knock  sounded  on  the  hall  door. 

Copeland  left  his  corner  of  the  dark  room  and 
stood  upon  the  landing  commanding  the  ill-lit  hall. 

A  servant  came,  grumbling,  from  the  rear — an  elder- 
ly woman  of  the  village. 

"Do  not  open,"  Copeland  said,  his  voice  low  and 
with  a  rasplike  edge  to  it.  "I  will  go  down  if  it  be- 
comes necessary." 

The  servant,  used  to  his  eccentricities,  crept  quietly 
back  to  the  kitchen. 

Paul  Copeland  remained  upon  the  landing,  clutching 
the  sinister-looking  weapon  he  had  taken  from  the 
rack. 

The  knocking  was  repeated — three  slow,  heavy 
beats.  Each  one  seemed  to  produce  an  echo  in  the 
quiet  house.  The  listening  silence  of  the  watching 
man  was  intensified  as  the  last  echo  died  away. 

The  brass  shield  of  a  slit  in  the  door,  used  for  let- 
ters, opened  noisily.  A  hand,  curiously  delicate  for 
a  man's,  slipped  halfway  through  the  aperture.  The 
only  moving  thing  in  the  brooding  empty  space  of  the 
bare  hall,  it  held  the  attention  of  Copeland,  whose  one 
eye  was  fixed  upon  it  as  if  the  brain  behind  were  hyp- 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


notized.  The  moving  hand  showed  one  marked  pecu- 
liarity. There  were  only  three  fingers  upon  it.  The 
fourth,  or  little,  finger  was  missing.  The  other  three, 
lean,  prehensile,  were  bunched  together  and  looked  like 
talons  on  a  fierce,  predatory  claw.  They  released 
something  gripped  between  the  fingers  and  the  thumb, 
and  it  fell  with  a  metallic  tinkle,  while  a  paper  also 
fluttered  to  the  floor.  The  brass  shield  closed  with  a 
snap  as  the  hand  was  withdrawn.  The  sound  of  foot- 
steps on  the  gravel  path  was  again  heard.  After,  all 
was  silent. 

Down  the  shadowed  stairs  and  across  the  half-lit 
hall  went  Copeland,  creeping  in  the  fearful  manner  of 
a  hunted  animal.  He  sought  upon  the  stone  floor, 
then,  with  what  he  found,  walked  back  to  his  own  dark 
study.  Seated  in  his  chair,  he  held  out  his  palm  to 
catch  the  flickering  light  of  the  fire. 

Resting  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand  was  a  little  red 
cross,  made  of  vividly  enameled  metal. 

"The  Red  Colonel  loses  no  time,"  he  mumbled  to 
himself.  "My  eye  was  right  in  what  I  thought  it  saw. 
They  have  tipped  me  the  cross  at  last." 

As  he  spoke,  Paul  Copeland  turned  to  the  slip  of 
paper. 

"You  may  not  open  to  the  signal,"  were  the  words 
sprawled  in  a  handwriting  as  round  as  a  schoolgirl's, 
"but  you  have  the  sign.  You  will  not  escape  from 
the  shadow  of  the  little  Red  Cross  again." 

He  read  the  message  over  twice.  Then  threw  the 
paper  and  the  cross  into  the  blazing  fire. 


CHAPTER    III 

OUTSIDE  Wayside  Lodge,  Vesta  Copeland 
walked  rapidly  toward  the  village,  expecting 
every  moment  to  meet  her  lover,  Stanley 
Waring. 

The  dark  road  did  not  permit  of  easy  recognition. 
Eagerly  as  she  traveled,  Vesta  twice  quickened  her 
footsteps,  believing  Waring's  well-known  form  was 
looming  in  the  misty  night  and  coming  toward  her. 
Twice  the  girl  was  disappointed. 

The  first  shape,  darkly  outlined,  proved  to  be  a  vil- 
lager, passing  home  from  his  day's  work.  As  he 
slouched  out  of  the  gloom,  he  gave  the  girl  a  civil 
good  night,  without  raising  his  bent  head.  Fifty  yards 
further  on,  Vesta  heard  other  footsteps.  Another  fig- 
ure loomed  up  from  the  surrounding  darkness  and  took 
an  unfamiliar  shape,  as  it  solidified  into  a  moving  patch 
upon  the  dark  background. 

Vesta  was  passing  the  approaching  man  when  he 
suddenly  stopped  in  his  tracks,  abreast  of  her.  Slightly 
startled,  she  eyed  him  closely.  Indistinctly,  she  made 
out  that  he  was  a  big  man  in  rough  habit — clad,  it  ap- 
peared to  her,  in  a  tight-fitting  jersey  with  white  trous- 
ers, and  looking  oddly  out  of  place  in  that  dark  avenue. 
He  seemed  a  rough,  lumbering  fellow,  and  judging 
from  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  was  heavily  shod.  The 
man's  voice,  when  he  spoke,  betrayed  signs  of  culture, 

24 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


and  had  none  of  the  qualities  of  the  softly  drawled 
Buckinghamshire  dialect. 

"Excuse  me,"  the  man  said,  "but  does  this  road  lead 
past  Wayside  Lodge  ?" 

"Yes,"  Vesta  answered;  "you  are  only  a  few  yards 
from  the  entrance." 

"I  turn  there  for  the  highway,  don't  I?"  the  stranger 
asked. 

"Yes."    Vesta  moved  away  as  she  replied. 

"Thanks  so  much."  As  the  man  drawled  the  con- 
ventional phrase,  he  raised  his  cap  and  rapidly  disap- 
peared. Vesta,  walking  forward,  found  herself  remem- 
bering in  wonder  and  surprise  the  character  of  the 
man's  address,  and  his  courteous  salute,  as  small  mat- 
ters of  conduct  in  startling  contrast  with  his  personal 
appearance.  His  method  of  speaking  and  the  saluta- 
tion had  the  ease  of  a  man  accustomed  to  moving  in 
the  polished  world  where  manners  count,  though  his 
appearance  suggested  that  pariah  of  the  road — the 
bogus,  crippled  seafaring  man. 

A  dozen  yards  further,  Vesta  saw  a  third  figure  com- 
ing out  of  the  gloom.  This  time  her  quickening  steps 
were  not  slowed  by  disappointment.  A  familiar  shape 
came  toward  her,  eagerly,  and  with  outstretched  hands. 
A  voice  she  had  learned  to  know  called  Vesta  by  name, 
and,  favored  by  the  darkness,  the  lovers  embraced. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  detail  the  most  of  what  these 
two  young  people  said.  They  were  in  that  magical  hey- 
day of  emotion  that  comes,  perhaps,  once  in  a  lifetime, 
when  love  first  unfolds,  and  turns  the  world  into  a  song 
of  half-formed  desires.  They  walked  in  the  night  to- 
gether, hand  in  hand,  and  found  the  dark  country  a 

25 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


garden  full  of  light  and  color,  scent  and  savor.  The 
crowded  universe,  peopled  by  millions  of  little  lives 
treading  the  limited  circle  of  human  purposes,  had  van- 
ished. Life  had  become  to  them  a  great  play  in  a 
hushed  theater,  the  whole  world  the  stage,  themselves 
the  only  actors  in  an  age-worn  comedy  that  still  re- 
mains divine. 

For  some  months  now  Stanley  Waring  and  Vesta 
Copeland  had  met  almost  daily  in  the  evening  hour. 
Copeland  had  made  no  difficulties  about  receiving  War- 
ing, who  had  been  to  Wayside  Lodge  several  times. 
Both  Vesta  and  Waring  preferred  this  hour  of  their 
meeting  out  of  doors  with  the  silence  of  the  evening 
about  them — that  lonely  atmosphere  of  oncoming  night 
so  dear  to  lovers,  when  a  thrill  comes  from  the  pressure 
of  a  hand  or  the  shy  glance  of  a  bright  eye ;  when  the 
language  of  affection  expresses  its  adoration  in  halting 
speeches,  or  still  more  eloquent  silences.  Their  romance 
thrived  better  in  a  free  world  out  of  doors  than  when 
expressed  in  the  frigid  atmosphere  of  Wayside  Lodge. 

Stanley  Waring  was  a  young  man  of  about  twenty- 
six  years,  who  had  just  completed  his  professional  edu- 
cation. The  son  of  Dr.  Waring,  headmaster  of  the 
privately  owned  Kings  College,  Missingham,  he  had 
qualified  for  the  practice  of  medicine.  Beyond  one  pro- 
fessional journey  abroad  as  a  ship's  doctor,  he  was 
marking  time,  pending  negotiations  for  an  appointment 
in  the  public  services.  For  six  months  he  had  been 
staying  at  his  home,  taking  a  share  in  the  routine  work 
of  the  school  by  acting  as  temporary  tutor  of  the  sci- 
ence classes. 

Stanley  Waring  was  a  young  Englishman  of  the  pub- 

26 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


lie  school  type,  good  looking  in  a  lean,  fit,  rugged  way 
that  suggested  clean  living,  some  natural  ability,  a 
strong  physique  and  a  tenacious  intellect.  Looking  at 
him,  one  recognized  the  greyhound  breed — Waring  had 
the  type  of  head  that  betrays  possession  of  the  instinct 
for  getting  at  the  heart  of  a  matter,  and  the  energy  to 
reach  that  point  in  the  shortest  possible  time.  There 
was  a  strange  mixture  of  the  scholar  and  the  athlete 
about  his  make-up.  He  appeared  to  be  a  man  who  had 
read  and  thought  much  without  reading  and  thinking 
himself  out  of  the  world  of  men  and  into  the  cloistered 
seclusion  of  the  library.  The  set  of  the  eyes  and  the 
forehead  above  them  suggested  unusual  will  power  and 
concentration.  The  pronounced  lean  nose,  high  and 
proud,  gave  a  sharp-set  quality  to  his  face  that  made 
one  think  of  the  Indian  type — the  hunter  in  lonely 
solitudes.  The  mouth  was  firm  and  could  look  grim, 
but  though  slowly  moved  to  laughter,  when  Stanley 
Waring  smiled  his  hard,  determined  face  was  lit  by 
many  kindly  humors  and  revealed  another  side  of  the 
character  of  the  man,  who,  at  first  sight,  might  have 
appeared  reserved  to  the  point  of  taciturnity. 

Picture  him,  then,  as  he  has  much  to  do  with  this 
history,  a  man  of  lean,  hard  habit,  of  the  greyhound 
type,  with  a  well-shaped  head  set  on  big  shoulders,  a 
long  body  whose  loose,  easy  carriage  suggested  re- 
serves of  great  strength.  Clad  in  tweeds,  a  soft,  cloth 
cap  pulled  well  over  his  eyes,  he  strode  along  by  Vesta's 
side,  a  typical  example  of  the  younger  breed  of  pro- 
fessional man  to  be  found  working  in  the  services  in 
every  land,  or  idling  away  vacations  with  rod  and  line, 
or  gun,  in  the  rural  districts  of  the  home  country. 

27 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Their  jealously  guarded  hour  had  gone  and  they 
were  nearing  Wayside  Lodge.  They  had  come  by  a 
deserted  field  path  leading  into  the  highroad  that  ran 
along  the  side  of  Copeland's  lawn.  They  had  remained 
loitering,  as  lovers  will,  at  the  kissing  gate  joining  the 
path  to  the  road,  and  between  them  had  come  one  of 
those  eloquent  silences  that  mean  so  much  in  the  duo- 
logue of  the  sexes,  but  are  fatal  gaps  in  the  ordinary 
conversations  of  social  life. 

Vesta's  glance  was  absently  searching  the  clouded 
sky  and  Stanley  Waring  lingered  at  the  girl's  side, 
content  with  the  starlight  in  her  eyes. 

"It  seems  all  so  good,  so  wonderful  to  me,"  she  said, 
at  last.  "Always,  we  have  been  moving.  I  have  never 
known  anyone  as  I  know  you." 

He  kissed  the  earnest  face -turned  toward  his  own. 

"I  cannot  even  tell  you  who  I  am,  or  what  I  am," 
Vesta  Copeland  went  on.  "All  I  know  about  my- 
self  " 

"As  if  that  matters,"  he  urged ;  "as  if  anything  mat- 
ters save  that  your  dear  self  is  here." 

"Yes — but  it  does  matter,  in  a  way,"  Vesta  went 
on,  her  voice  thrilling,  as  she  heard  his  impetuous  in- 
terruption. "I  can  only  remember  that  I  was  educated 
in  a  convent  in  Germany,  that  my  childhood  seemed  to 
begin  there  and  that  he  came — the  man  I  call  father — 
and  took  me  from  school  into  the  great  world.  And 
after  that  we  were  always  moving  on.  Since  I  left 
the  convent  we  seem  to  have  been  everywhere,  and 
nowhere  very  long." 

"Well — at  least,  you  are  a  bewitching  mystery," 
Stanley  suggested  gallantly. 

28 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"There  you  say  what  I  know  and  what  I  always  feel 
people  think  about  us.  You  have  noticed  it  yourself," 
Vesta  suggested  in  a  troubled  voice. 

"No — no,"  he  answered  gaily.  "I  was  only  saying 
what  your  own  story  seems  to  suggest.  I  was  agreeing 
with  you — giving  you  the  woman's  right  to  the  last 
word." 

She  smiled,  ever  so  slightly. 

"Suppose  we  were  suddenly  called  away  again," 
Vesta  asked,  and  her  troubled  eyes  met  his  steady,  sym- 
pathetic gaze. 

"I'd  follow  you  to  the  end  of  the  world,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"You  would  not — you  could  not,"  she  began.  "You 
don't  quite  realize  what  our  life  has  been.  Let  me 
tell  you  something  I  would  not  confide  in  any  single 
soul.  We  are  involved  in  some  mystery.  Light  as 
your  words  were,  they  are  true  in  substance  and  in 
fact.  My  father  goes  in  terror  of  something  happen- 
ing that  he  never  names.  He  cannot  settle  anywhere. 
One  day  he  may  pick  out  a  quiet  spot,  such  as  this 
village  is,  in  some  remote  country.  There  he  may  re- 
main for  days,  or  months,  or  even  for  years.  Then, 
suddenly,  I  feel  the  shadow  that  seemed  to  have  lifted 
has  fallen  on  his  life  again.  I  know  the  signs  only 
too  well.  When  they  appear,  we  go,  creeping  away 
like  guilty  things,  shadows  ourselves." 

Waring  looked  at  the  girl  with  added  interest.  He 
saw  she  was  deeply  moved,  that  a  definite  purpose  was 
impelling  Vesta  to  the  confession  she  was  making. 

"Don't  think  I  am  trying  to  be  romantic,"  Vesta 
said  earnestly.  "I  am  telling  you  the  bare  truth.  I 

29 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


want  you  to  remember  this  if  the  shadow  should  fall 
again.  We  live  here,  apparently  rooted  to  the  spot. 
To-morrow  we  might  be  gone." 

"You  will  never  go  from  me,"  Stanley  said,  with  the 
sublime  confidence  of  youth.  "You've  wandered  here 
to  Missingham  and  to  me,  but  I  should  not  let  you 
wander  away  out  of  my  life.  Do  you  anticipate  any 
sudden  flight,  my  restless  bird  of  passage?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  simply.  "That  is  why  I  am  telling 
you  this  strange  story.  It  is  a  fact  in  our  life  that 
I  cannot  conceal  any  longer." 

"You  think  you  are  likely  to  leave  Missingham,"  he 
asked  urgently,  now  thoroughly  aroused  and  concerned 
by  her  manner. 

"Yes,"  Vesta  answered.  "To-day  my  father  be- 
trayed signs  of  the  return  of  this  unrest — of  his  dread 
of  some  influence  he  has  never  outlined  to  me." 

"But  you  will  not  go,"  Waring  said  passionately. 
"You  do  not  want  to  go?" 

"No — no,"  Vesta  said,  catching  the  urgent  call  of 
his  own  emotions.  "How  can  you  ask  that?  I  do  not 
want  to  go.  In  the  old  days,  these  sudden  upheavals 
were  different.  At  least  change  meant  the  delight  of 
new  surroundings — a  charm  that  appeals  to  youth. 
But  since  I  met  you,  dearest,  it  is  different.  I  do  not 
want  to  move  on  in  the  old  restless,  furtive  manner 
again." 

"Then  you  will  not,  darling,"  he  said  urgently. 

"How  can  I  help  myself?"  she  asked.  "My  duty  and 
my  necessity  alike  bind  me  to  my  father." 

"Stay  with  me,"  Stanley  said,  warmly,  and  with 
some  emotion.  "We  have  been  planning,  you  and  I, 

30 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


how  some  day  we  shall  marry — when  I  can  see  my  way 
to  ask  you.  Stop  with  me  and  let  us  marry  now. 
After  all,  we  are  young.  We  could  rub  along  as  lots 
of  young  people  must.  I'm  not  exactly  lame,  halt,  or 
blind." 

She  stopped  his  rush  of  words,  half-passionate  ap- 
peal, the  rest  a  wild,  youthful,  eloquent  expression  of 
his  love. 

"That  reminds  me,"  she  said,  after  an  interval  of 
silence.  "My  father  was  referring  to  you  to-night  be- 
fore I  left  the  house.  He  was  talking  of  our  asso- 
ciation and  asked  me  to  bring  you  in.  His  voice  and 
manner  were  full  of  the  old  trouble,  and,  with  it,  I 
believe  he  had  been  considering  our  present  association. 
I  suppose  he  was  thinking  of  the  prospect  of  my  mar- 
riage as  a  new  complication  in  our  tangled  lives.  He 
asked  me  to  bring  you  back  to  the  house.  I  think  he 
has  something  to  say  to  you.  Will  you  come  in?" 

Stanley  Waring  smiled  with  obvious  gratification, 
and  his  eagerness  to  comply  with  her  request  pleased 
Vesta. 

"Will  I?"  Stanley  said,  joyously.  "Why,  of  course, 
I'll  be  delighted.  The  fact  is  I  have  been  waiting  for 
the  opportunity.  Candidly,  Vesta,  your  father  is  some- 
thing of  a  puzzle  to  me.  He  is  unlike  any  man  I  ever 
knew,  and  you  cannot  even  see  whether  he  is  pleased 
or  angry  when  you  look  into  his  expressionless  face. 
I've  hinted  at  my  wishes  time  after  time,  since  you 
gave  me  hope;  but  he  has  always  cut  me  off,  kindly 
maybe,  but  with  a  manner  that  dismissed  the  subject 
irrevocably.  I  got  the  notion  from  his  frigid  manner 
that  Mr.  Copeland  did  not  quite  approve  of  me." 

31 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"Absurd,"  Vesta  said,  all  her  pride  in  the  man  by 
her  side  expressed  in  her  words ;  "how  could  he  fail  to 
approve  of  you?  There  is  much  in  our  lives  that  I 
do  not  understand — that  I  have  never  really  tried  to 
understand  until  these  last  months  have  brought  you 
to  me  and  given  another  interest  to  my  life.  But,  apart 
from  the  shadow  that  drives  my  father  on,  he  is  both 
just  and  kind — just  and  kind  in  a  way  few  men  are. 
I  sometimes  think  this  kindness  and  consideration  for 
others  arises  out  of  a  great  regret." 

They  were  approaching  the  grounds  of  Wayside 
Lodge,  walking  slowly  in  the  silent  lane,  and  lingering, 
as  if  jealous  of  the  swift  flight  of  the  one  hour  in  the 
day  they  had  begun  to  call  their  own. 

Thirty  yards  away  from  the  grounds,  the  wind  blow- 
ing toward  them,  they  had  stood  for  a  few  minutes 
talking  with  the  absorbed  egotism  of  lovers  the  world 
over. 

Suddenly,  a  new  sound  was  added  to  the  mild  roar  of 
the  gusty  wind.  The  fury  of  the  rising  gale  struck 
the  ear  with  less  force  out  of  doors  than  it  did  when 
heard  by  Paul  Copeland,  as  he  sat  crouching  in  his 
study. 

In  the  gusty  burden  of  the  wind's  song,  there  came 
to  them  a  human  sound — the  faint  shrill  notes  of  some- 
one whistling. 

Vesta  Copeland  listened,  her  face  paling  slightly. 

They  stood  through  another  short  interval  of  time, 
Stanley  Waring  noting  the  concern  shown  by  the 
girl. 

"What  troubles  you  now,  dearest?"  he  said,  gazing 
anxiously  into  the  eyes  looking  toward  him,  though  he 

32 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


knew  the  thought  behind  them  was  not  concerned  with 
himself. 

"I  thought  I  heard  something,"  Vesta  said,  with  a 
slight  shiver. 

As  she  spoke  the  words,  the  whistled  notes  again 
shrilled.  They  had  begun  to  walk  on,  but  the  girl 
stopped  dead  as  she  heard  the  repetition  of  the  two 
bars  of  music  that  were  disturbing  Paul  Copeland. 

"What  is  it,  darling?"  Waring  asked,  troubled  by 
her  manner. 

"Where  did  I  hear  those  notes  before,  and  when?" 
Vesta  muttered.  As  she  did  so,  she  passed  her  hand 
over  her  eyes,  the  action  suggesting  she  was  trying  to 
stimulate  memory  itself. 

"No,"  she  said,  at  last.     "I  cannot  remember." 

The  whistled  notes  were  repeated  for  the  third  time, 
as  the  girl  stood,  her  hand  trembling  slightly  in  War- 
ing's  steadfast  grip. 

"And  yet  why  do  I  recall  them?"  Vesta  went  on. 
"Why  are  they  so  oddly  familiar?  Why  do  they  fill 
my  brain  with  horrible  thought?" 

"You  are  overwrought,  darling,"  Stanley  suggested, 
more  and  more  puzzled  by  the  girl's  manner. 

"I'm  frightened,"  she  answered,  almost  in  a  whisper. 
"Don't  think  me  foolish,"  she  urged,  "but  do  you  never 
hear  a  sound,  a  phrase,  a  voice,  a  scrap  of  melody  that 
half  brings  back  some  buried  memory  of  childhood  in 
a  blurred  shape  one  cannot  decipher  ?  I've  heard  those 
whistled  notes  before.  They  make  me  think  of  some- 
one dead.  They  make  me  see  my  father  with  two  eyes. 
They  make  me  think  of  our  first  flight,  terror-stricken, 
from  a  strange  city." 

33 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


Without  further  words,  they  walked  on.  Just  as  the 
two  came  to  the  confines  of  the  grounds  of  Wayside 
Lodge,  the  length  of  the  lawn  dividing  them  from  the 
entrance  gates,  heavy  footsteps  heralded  the  approach 
of  someone,  and,  walking  quickly,  a  man's  shape 
emerged  from  the  shadowed  road. 

Vesta  noted  as  the  man  passed  that  he  was  the  same 
who  had  accosted  her  when  she  set  out  to  meet  her 
lover.  She  recalled  the  impression  he  had  given  her 
of  being  unusual — how  oddly  the  man's  manner  and 
speech  had  contrasted  with  his  shambling  bulk.  Near- 
ing  Wayside  Lodge,  Vesta  was  dismissing  this  man 
from  her  thoughts.  He  had  traveled  on  perhaps  fifteen 
or  twenty  yards,  when  suddenly  he  began  to  whistle. 
With  mind  singularly  alert  and  clear,  Vesta  recog- 
nized the  notes  as  a  fragment  of  an  Italian  opera — a 
marching  chorus.  Her  ear  caught  and  dwelt  upon  the 
lilting  of  the  melody  with  something  like  a  chill.  When 
the  man  came  to  the  last  two  bars  of  the  chorus,  Vesta 
realized  they  were  the  same  as  the  fragment  she  had 
just  heard — the  sounds  that  had  stirred  early  recol- 
lections and  set  dancing  a  series  of  vague,  sinister,  half- 
formed  pictures  in  her  mind.  The  man  who  was  pass- 
ing down  the  gloomy  road  was  the  man  who  had  thrice 
given  the  fragment  of  a  melody  that  seemed,  even  to 
Vesta,  to  be  in  the  nature  of  a  disturbing  signal. 


CHAPTER   IV 

STANLEY  WARING  followed  Vesta  Copeland 
into  the  gloomy  hall  of  Wayside  Lodge.  Vesta 
had  entered  by  using  a  key  she  carried,  and  the 
door  had  opened,  silently.  The  big  lobby  space  was 
in  almost  total  darkness.  She  turned  to  her  lover  with 
a  whispered  demand  for  matches,  and  they  were  grop- 
ing about  for  a  light,  when  the  deadly  stillness  was 
broken. 

"Stop,"  said  a  harsh  voice,  seeming  at  once  terror- 
stricken  and  threatening.  "Do  not  advance  along  the 
stairway  or  I'll  drop  you  on  the  first  step." 

At  the  moment,  and  before  Vesta  could  reply,  War- 
ing had  struck  a  match  and  lighted  the  hall  lamp. 

Somewhat  startled,  they  both  looked  up  the  stair- 
case. A  surprising  sight  met  their  astonished  gaze. 
Paul  Copeland  stood  on  the  landing,  peering  down,  his 
one  eye  glittering  dangerously.  In  his  hand  he  held  a 
heavy  revolver  and  the  ugly  weapon  covered  their  ap- 
proach. 

When  Copeland  saw  the  new  comers,  he  tried  to 
smile  and  made  a  curious  gesture,  as  if  by  his  action 
he  were  trying  to  dissipate  the  strange  impression  his 
appearance  had  created.  Even  as  he  did  so,  he  swayed 
dangerously,  threw  up  his  hands  to  his  throat,  plucking 
at  his  own  neck  with  the  jerky  gesture  of  a  man  being 
strangled,  and  fell,  with  some  violence,  upon  the  floor. 

Vesta  gave  a  little  scream,  but,  control  asserting  it- 

35 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


self,  she  rushed  up  the  steps,  followed  by  Waring,  him- 
self shocked  by  the  unusual  greeting. 

As  they  bent  over  the  body,  Vesta  white  to  the  lips 
with  fright,  both  thought  the  same  thing — that  Paul 
Copeland  had  died,  suddenly,  before  their  eyes. 

Stanley's  professional  training  quickly  came  to  his 
aid.  With  assured  touch  he  felt  the  pulse  and  discov- 
ered it  to  be  beating  rapidly,  and  weakly,  but  distinct 
enough  to  prove  that  his  first  thought — heart  failure — 
was  incorrect.  The  face  was  deadly  pale,  even  when 
compared  with  the  normal  pallor,  but  betrayed  no  other 
disquieting  signs.  Deftly,  Waring  unloosed  the  collar, 
and  with  practiced  ease  picked  up  Copeland,  carried 
him  bodily  into  the  study,  and  placed  him  on  the  camp 
bedstead.  The  room  was  still  unlighted  save  for  the 
dim  illumination  of  the  dancing  flames  within  the  fire- 
place. 

Waring  turned  to  Vesta  to  reassure  her. 

"Nothing  to  be  alarmed  about,"  he  said,  earnestly. 
"He's  fainted.  You  may  depend  he  will  be  all  right  in 
a  minute  or  two — already  he  is  beginning  to  stir.  If 
there  is  any  brandy  in  the  house,  please  bring  it." 

Vesta  went  for  the  spirit  at  once.  She  had  not  been 
absent  more  than  a  minute,  but  when  she  returned  her 
father  was  sitting  up,  to  all  appearances  himself  again, 
though  his  eye  wandered  restlessly  about  the  room.  He 
smiled  vaguely  at  the  girl  as  she  entered. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  back,"  he  said,  speak- 
ing slowly.  "I  have  been  lonely  and  uneasy.  I  think 
I  must  have  lost  my  nerve.  I  thought  of  the  red — 

He  broke  off  suddenly,  as  his  mind  resumed  its  sway. 

"You  thought  what,  dear?"  Vesta  asked,  anxiously. 

36 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Paul  Copeland  put  up  a  trembling  hand  and  passed 
the  long,  skinny  fingers  wearily  over  his  eyes. 

"I  thought — I  don't  know  what  I  thought,"  he  re- 
plied. "This  house  is  lonely.  I  saw  some  shadow  of 
evil.  To-morrow,  I  shall  leave.  The  place  is  on  my 
nerves — that's  it.  I  want  new,  brighter  surroundings." 

As  he  spoke,  he  was  recovering  himself  and  his  man- 
ner was  becoming  normal. 

Waring  and  Vesta  busied  themselves  with  little  details 
for  his  comfort  for  some  minutes,  while  Paul  Cope- 
land's  eye  wandered  restlessly  from  the  face  of  his 
daughter  to  that  of  the  man  whom  he  knew  to  be  her 
lover.  Several  times  he  seemed  on  the  point  of  ut- 
tering thoughts  lying  uppermost  in  his  mind.  Each 
time  he  appeared  to  check  himself  by  a  violent  effort. 
Abruptly,  he  made  up  his  mind  and  gave  a  brief  in- 
struction to  his  daughter,  asking  her  to  prepare  a 
light  supper. 

"And  leave  me  alone  with  Waring  for  half  an  hour," 
he  added,  weakly.  "There  is  something  I  want  to  say 
to  him." 

The  girl  had  scarcely  left  the  room,  her  manner  ren- 
dered somewhat  self-conscious  by  this  request,  before 
Paul  Copeland  began  to  speak,  rapidly  and  urgently, 
to  his  young  guest. 

"You  are  a  doctor,  Waring,  are  you  not?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  the  other  replied,  watching  a  spasm  of  pain 
reflect  itself  on  Copeland's  otherwise  expressionless 
face. 

"Then  would  you  do  me  a  favor?" 

"Certainly — if  it  be  in  my  power.     What  can  I  do  ?" 

"Sound  my  heart." 

37 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


As  Paul  Copeland  spoke,  he  bared  his  chest. 

Stanley  Waring  had  no  instruments,  but  he  made  a 
hasty  examination  by  listening  with  his  ear  close  to 
the  body.  What  he  heard  there  surprised  him.  The 
heart  was  laboring  with  a  distinct  murmur,  and  gave 
unmistakable  signs  of  valvular  trouble.  He  looked  at 
Copeland,  after  the  hasty  examination,  hesitatingly, 
and  could  not  conceal  the  instinctive  pity  rushing  to 
find  expression  on  his  clean-cut  features.  Copeland, 
watching  him  narrowly,  with  his  one  vigilant  eye,  saw 
Waring's  changed  expression  before  the  younger  man 
had  time  to  compose  his  features. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  breathlessly.  "As  I  feared.  Twice 
to-day,  my  heart  has  failed  me.  Is  it  bad?  Tell  me 
the  truth — accuracy  is  important  to  me.  Is  it  very 
bad?" 

"Yes,"  Waring  answered,  briefly. 

"Very  bad — eh?"  Copeland  asked.  "Remember,  it  is 
important  I  should  know." 

"Have  you  not  suspected  the  trouble  yourself,  be- 
fore to-day?"  Waring  asked. 

"Yes — how  bad  would  you  say  I  am?"  Copeland  an- 
swered Waring's  question  with  another. 

"From  a  hasty  examination,  I  would  say  your  heart 
is  dangerously  affected.  I  think  you  should  undergo 
treatment  at  once — to-morrow.  I  would  see  a  good 
man,  if  I  were  you." 

"Thanks,  Waring—"  Copeland  said,  quietly.  "What 
have  I  to  fear?" 

Waring  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"If  you  press  me,  sir,  you  have  to  fear  the  worst, 
and  that,  stealing  upon  you  suddenly." 

38 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


Paul  Copeland  lay  back  in  his  chair,  his  eye  closed, 
his  face  still  and  impassive.  He  seemed  to  be  thinking. 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  at  last,  dismissing  the  matter. 
"And  now — about  Vesta.  My  daughter  says  you  de- 
sire my  consent  to  your  marriage,"  he  suggested,  di- 
rectly. 

The  younger  man's  eyes  gleamed  eagerly. 

"I  have  been  waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  tell  you 
of  our  plans  for  many  weeks.  It  is  the  one  desire 
uppermost  in  my  mind — a  desire,  I  am  proud  to  say, 
shared  by  Vesta  herself." 

The  older  man  still  lay  back  in  his  chair,  a  strangely 
tired  expression  upon  his  face. 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  he  said.  "To-day,  I  thought 
of  going  away.  In  the  face  of  what  you  have  told  me, 
I  shall  stop.  You  say  I  may  die  at  any  moment. 
That  is  true — true,  in  a  sense  you  do  not  realize.  I 
have  been  weak — how  weak  I  cannot  tell  you.  But  I 
have  tried  to  see  my  girl,  Vesta,  righted.  There  are 
ample  means  at  her  disposal.  My  life  has  been  one 
bitter  struggle  for  that.  Against  everything  I  have 
clung  to  the  hope  that  I  should  leave  her  wealthy.  I 
am  also  glad  that  she  has  the  prospect  of  a  good  man's 
love.  You  will  look  after  her,  my  boy — eh?" 

He  asked  the  question  eagerly,  his  strangely  bright 
eye  watching  the  young  man's  face. 

"I  will,"  Waring  answered  with  youthful  confidence. 
"But  you,  sir — the  end  is  not  yet." 

"No — perhaps  not,"  the  older  man  said,  shrugging 
his  shoulders.  "The  end  may  not  be  yet.  But,  in  the 
event  of  this  untoward  thing  happening,  I  would  like 
to  have  several  matters  cleared  up.  See,  my  boy — I 

39 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


like  you ;  I  trust  you ;  I,  who  have  not  trusted  any  man 
— or  woman — trust  you.  I  want  you  particularly  to 
make  a  promise." 

"Anything  that  would  add  to  your  peace  of  mind  I 
will  promise,"  Waring  said,  scarcely  considering  his 
words. 

Paul  Copeland  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  or  two 
with  a  grim,  speculative  interest.  Then  he  rose  from 
his  seat  with  some  difficulty,  crossed  the  room  to  a 
heavy  safe,  and  unlocked  it  with  a  small  brass  key. 
Copeland  fumbled  about  the  interior  and  finally  with- 
drew an  envelope,  made  of  tough,  blue  linen  paper, 
sealed  and  soiled  as  if  the  fabric  were  old. 

"I  want  you  to  take  this,"  he  said.  "I  want  you 
to  take  it  now  and  keep  it  unopened  until  after  I  am 
dead.  I  want  you  to  take  it  to-night.  You  might 
humor  me  in  this  odd  request  and  take  this  envelope 
now,  keeping  it  safe  and  unopened.  Will  you?  I  do 
not  feel  safe  to-night." 

Waring's  expression  showed  the  puzzled  thoughts 
passing  in  his  mind. 

"Yes — if  you  insist,"  he  said,  at  last.  "I'll  take 
the  envelope  and  guard  its  contents.  But  there  is  no 
immediate  or  special  cause  for  anxiety  so  far  as  your 
health  is  concerned.  With  care  and  proper  treatment, 
you  might  go  on  for  months  or  years.  You  do  not 
fear  anything  to-night?" 

"No — if  you  take  the  papers,  I  shall  not  fear  any- 
thing, now,"  Copeland  said.  "I  shall  be  prepared." 

"For  what?"  asked  Waring,  uneasily. 

Copeland  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"For  any  eventuality,  as  it  may  arrive.  Life  is  an 
40 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


uncertain  affair  for  me,  as  you  have  just  said,"  he 
went  on.  "There  is  a  secret  in  my  life  I  should  like 
you  to  be  the  first  to  know  in  any  case  of  emergency." 

There  were  many  questions  Waring  would  have 
asked,  but  Vesta  returned  at  that  moment  and  Paul 
Copeland,  his  eye  resting  upon  the  girl,  whose  pres- 
ence seemed  to  soothe  him,  suggested  that  he  had  said 
all  he  desired  to  communicate  to  Waring  and  the  confi- 
dential character  of  the  interview  ended. 

The  older  man  ate  a  simple  supper  and  chatted 
easily,  making  light  of  his  earlier  panic.  He  even 
grew  animated  as  he  talked.  Into  the  parchment- 
hued,  shriveled  features  crept  a  hint  of  color.  The 
lips  grew  less  pale.  The  one  eye  gleamed  with  a  bright- 
ness not  wholly  like  the  old  wintry  glare.  Vesta  re- 
membered that  her  father  seemed  more  at  ease  that 
night  than  during  any  period  of  her  knowledge  of  him. 
The  hour  was  half  past  ten,  when  Waring  rose  to  go. 

Vesta  preceded  him  out  of  the  room. 

Some  instinct  bade  Waring  to  be  scrupulous  in  his 
farewell — perhaps  Copeland's  kindly  manner  in  accept- 
ing him  as  the  future  husband  of  his  daughter,  per- 
haps some  psychological  state  that  responded  to  the 
unusual  geniality  of  a  man  who,  if  he  had  not  repelled 
Waring's  advances,  had  certainly  always  been  negative 
in  his  attitude.  Paul  Copeland  sat  as  Waring  had 
seen  him  often,  hunched  up  in  his  chair,  with  an  unusual 
smile  upon  his  withered  features,  an  unusually  kind 
glow  in  his  wintry,  single  eye.  He  held  out  a  wasted 
hand  as  Waring  rose  and  looked  the  younger  man  in 
the  face,  with  a  steadiness  that  had  about  it  a  quality 
almost  hypnotic. 

41 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"You  will  be  kind  to  Vesta,"  he  said,  slowly. 

"Yes,"  Waring  replied,  buoyantly. 

"And  you  will  guard  my  papers  until  I  want  them 
again?  I  trust  you  with  much  to-night,  and  they 
may  involve  you  in  some  danger." 

The  old  man's  glance  was  now  so  keen,  he  seemed 
to  be  searching  Waring's  secret  mind. 

"Yes — you  will  find  me  worthy  of  your  trust,"  War- 
ing said,  with  boyish  eagerness.  "I  am  not  afraid  of 
danger,"  he  added,  as  the  significance  of  Copeland's 
last  phrase  struck  upon  his  mind. 

"Good  boy,"  Copeland  said.  "That  is  settled.  You 
have  helped  me  to  make  up  my  mind.  Good  night." 

So  Waring  left  the  strange  man  who  had  drifted 
into  his  life  and  was  to  influence  his  future  in  ways 
he  did  not  then  suspect.  His  last  impression  of  Cope- 
land  was  the  odd  thought  that  the  grim,  pallid  face, 
always  reminding  him  of  a  death  mask,  had  for  the 
first  time  softened  and  grown  more  human.  A  face 
that  had  seemed  to  him  hard,  impassive,  devoid  of  emo- 
tion, influenced  by  a  will  within  to  repel  advances  from 
without,  had  grown  almost  friendly.  The  haggard, 
gaunt,  restless,  hunted  expression  had  given  place  to 
a  quiet,  almost  gentle  serenity :  peace  lay  over  features 
unaccustomed  to  its  softening  shadow.  Waring  went 
away  thinking  of  his  host  as  a  man  whose  face  re- 
flected the  thoughts  of  a  warring  mind  brought  to  a 
quiet  haven,  of  an  aged  face  from  which  the  puckered 
lines  of  pain  had  been  smoothed  by  the  magic  of  some 
invisible,  healing  hand. 

Vesta  said  good-bye  to  him  in  the  hall — a  lover's 
fluttering  good-bye,  in  half  uttered  phrases,  in  little 

42 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


sighs,  and  shy  embraces,  the  characteristic  endear- 
ments of  a  woman  proud  of  her  surrender  and  reluc- 
tant even  to  admit  a  temporary  parting. 

Strangely  elate,  very  happy,  Stanley  Waring  left 
Wayside  Lodge,  a  girl's  laughing  face  glancing  with 
lingering  tenderness  after  him  as  he  went  his  way. 

A  man  passed  him  on  the  road  as  he  walked  toward 
the  village — a  man  who  whistled  softly.  Only  a  few 
minutes  after  did  Waring  remember  that  once  before 
that  night  he  had  heard  the  air  drifting  from  between 
the  wayfarer's  lips.  Even  then,  so  wrapt  was  he  in 
the  dreams  built  out  of  his  happy  evening,  he  scarce 
did  more  than  recollect  the  odd  coincidence. 

So  the  night  ended  for  Stanley  Waring. 

At  four  o'clock  the  next  morning,  a  servant  roused 
him. 

"Come  at  once,"  she  said,  as  he  answered  the  sum- 
mons. "Some  one  wants  you  on  the  telephone." 

He  could  hear  the  bell  shrilling  urgently  as  he  came 
to  full  consciousness  from  his  slumbers. 

Shivering  in  a  dressing-gown,  he  took  down  the  re- 
ceiver. 

"Oh!  Stanley,  Stanley,  is  that  you?"  a  voice  cried, 
a  voice  vibrating  with  horror,  terror  and  distress. 
"This  is  Vesta  speaking.  Come  at  once." 

"What  has  happened,  sweetheart  ?"  he  called  back. 

"Come  at  once,"  she  said.  "I'm  sick  with  fear.  My 
father  is  dead." 

"His  heart ;  his  heart,"  he  mumbled.  "I  was  afraid 
of  that.  I  told  him,  even  to-night,  that 

He  broke  off,  frozen  with  horror,  at  the  sound  of 
the  waiting  voice  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire. 

43 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


"He  has  been  murdered,  Stanley — murdered  in  the 
night.  In  God's  name  come  at  once.  I'm  here  alone. 
Come  by  the  usual  road  and  I  will  meet  you  on  the 
way.  I  dare  not  wait  for  your  coming  in  this  awful 
house." 


CHAPTER    V 

WITHOUT  any   possible  loss  of   time,  Stanley 
Waring  dressed  and  set  out   for  Wayside 
Lodge.       He    judged    it    better    to    com- 
mandeer   the    services    of    a    bicycle    standing    in    an 
outhouse.     Thus,  before  many  minutes   had  sped,  he 
was  on  the  road  leading  in  the  direction  of  Copeland's 
residence. 

With  the  approach  of  morning  and  the  clearing  of 
the  sky,  the  darkness  had  lifted.  Some  hundred  yards 
from  the  house,  he  made  out  the  figure  of  a  woman 
coming  toward  him.  Slowing  his  machine,  he  dis- 
mounted and  once  more  met  Vesta  Copeland  where,  a 
few  hours  before,  they  had  kept  a  tryst  with  all  the 
joyous  zest  of  lovers. 

Vesta  had  hastily  dressed  herself  and  was  hurrying 
to  meet  him,  wrapped  in  a  heavy  dressing  gown.  She 
wore  no  hat;  her  hair  was  in  wild  disorder;  her  eyes 
were  bright  and  dilated  by  an  emotion  that  was  obvi- 
ously terror.  When  she  saw  Stanley,  the  girl  threw 
herself  into  her  lover's  arms  and  there  for  many  minutes 
she  lay,  her  agitation  so  great  she  could  scarcely  give 
a  coherent  account  of  what  had  occurred. 

At  last,  gently  but  firmly,  Stanley  guided  her  mind 
back  to  the  later  events  of  the  night,  and  as  they  walked 
toward  the  Lodge  Vesta  began  to  give  a  broken  ac- 
count of  its  horrors. 

45 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"Is  there  anyone  in  the  house,  now?"  Stanley  asked, 
at  last. 

"No — at  least,  not  that  I  know  of,"  Vesta  replied. 
"Our  one  domestic  goes  out  at  night.  The  whole  place 
seemed  alive  with  terror  and  horror  and  I  dared  not 
stay.  I  had  only  enough  control  left  to  call  you  on  the 
'phone  and  then  I  rushed  out  of  the  Lodge.  I  was 
afraid  of  I  know  not  what." 

As  they  walked  along,  Stanley's  presence  seemed  to 
soothe  the  almost  hysterical  girl,  and  Vesta  began  to 
give  a  clearer  account  of  the  tragedy  of  the 
night. 

"There  was  something  different  about  our  household 
last  night,  even  when  you  were  there,  and  after  you 
had  gone,"  she  explained,  though  the  narrative  was 
broken  and  often  halted.  "All  day  long  my  father  had 
been  irritable.  In  the  evening  he  talked  of  moving. 
Then,  if  you  remember,  he  sent  for  you.  You  recall 
his  terror  when  we  entered — how  he  stood  in  the  dark, 
commanding  the  stairway,  with  a  revolver  in  his  hand. 
Well,  after  that  he  was  unusually  kind  and  gentle. 
When  you  had  left  us,  we  remained  chatting  by  the 
fire  until  midnight.  I  noticed  with  some  uneasiness, 
because  it  was  unusual,  that  his  mood  had  changed. 
He  continued  as  he  was  when  you  were  with  him — 
more  human  than  I  have  ever  seen  him  before — and  his 
talk  was  always  of  the  past,  never  of  the  future.  He 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  restless  desire  to  move 
on.  When  I  rose  to  say  good  night,  my  father  kissed 
me,  seemed  loath  for  me  to  go,  and  talked  on  as  if  he 
desired  to  detain  me.  He  gave  me  the  impression  a 
man  might  give  who  was  in  the  shadow  of  death,  and 

46 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


felt,  every  time  he  closed  his  eyes  at  night,  there  might 
be  no  to-morrow." 

"Perhaps  that  was  caused  by  the  shock  of  what  I 
had  to  tell  him  last  night,"  Stanley  said,  thoughtfully. 
"While  you  were  out,  he  asked  me  to  examine  his 
heart.  I  was  obliged  to  tell  your  father  that  his  life 
was  in  danger.  His  manner  altered  from  that  mo- 
ment." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Vesta;  "perhaps  that  was  the  cause, 
but  I  think  he  knew — knew  of  what  might  happen  in 
the  night.  When  I  left  him,  he  said  good  night  as  if 
he  were  saying  farewell.  I  have  never  seen  him  in  that 
softened  mood  before,  and  I  thought  much  of  it,  until 
I  fell  asleep.  Always,  he  had  been  a  hard,  unemo- 
tional man — giving  no  confidences  and  inviting  none." 

The  girl  stopped  suddenly,  and  her  manner  grew 
more  agitated,  as  she  came  again  to  the  immediate 
events  that  had  impressed  themselves  on  her  mind. 
With  an  effort,  she  continued  her  story. 

"I  did  not  sleep  very  soundly  in  the  night,"  Vesta 
continued,  with  a  shuddering  sigh.  "I  seem  to  have 
been  in  the  state  people  call  'half  asleep  and  half 
awake.5  I  was  sufficiently  asleep  to  dream  and  not 
sufficiently  awake  to  put  my  dreams  aside.  I  remember 
dreaming  of  something  terrible  happening  and  all  the 
events  were  mixed  up  with  a  signal — a  whistled  signal. 
You  remember  the  sounds  I  noticed,  last  night,  as  we 
returned  to  the  Lodge.  That  was  the  signal  I  heard 
in  my  dreams.  I  do  not  know  whether  the  notes  were 
real  or  not — whether  they  were  actually  sounded  out- 
side— but  for  a  dream  they  were  terribly  real — as  real 
as  the  whistled  signal  I  heard  last  night.  I  remember 

47 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


saying  to  myself  that  I  was  dreaming  and  making  a 
sub-conscious  effort  to  will  myself  to  awake  and  clear 
these  fancies  from  my  restless  mind,  when  I  heard,  first 
of  all,  a  pistol  shot  that  must  have  partially  aroused 
me  and  then  a  scream  of  pain.  I  have  no  memory 
of  hearing  such  a  horrible  sound  before  and  yet  it 
seemed  familiar  to  me.  Even  as  I  awoke  to  complete 
consciousness,  I  found  myself  associating  that  wail  of 
agony  with  death  by  violence." 

Vesta's  movements  slowed  as  they  neared  the  house 
and  she  hung  heavily  on  Stanley  Waring's  arm,  reluc- 
tant to  approach  the  horrors  of  Wayside  Lodge.  Her 
manner  grew  less  controlled  and  she  began  to  sob 
wildly.  For  some  minutes  she  could  not  continue  her 
narrative. 

"I  got  up  at  once,"  she  said,  at  last.  "As  quickly 
as  I  could  dress,  I  ran  to  my  father's  study.  The  lamp 
was  still  burning.  The  fire  was  blazing  in  the  grate. 
My  father  had  evidently  read  until  late  in  the  night  and 
kept  the  fire  burning.  The  windows  leading  to  the  bal- 
cony were  wide  open  and  the  wind  was  stirring  a  litter 
of  scattered  papers  on  the  table  and  the  floor.  My 
father  lay  on  the  camp  bed  and — oh!  Stanley,  I  can- 
not go  on.  The  sight  that  met  my  eyes  was  awful, 
and  for  a  moment  I  think  I  became  unconscious." 

Here  Vesta,  shuddering,  broke  down  and  sobbed  bit- 
terly; the  re-creation  of  the  vision  of  horror  through 
which  she  had  lived  proving  too  much  for  her  over- 
wrought mind. 

"Spare  yourself,"  Waring  said,  at  last.  "Here  is 
the  house.  I  shall  see  for  myself  what  happened  to 
your  father.  Have  you  sent  for  the  police?" 

48 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"No,"  Vesta  answered.  "I  had  only  one  thought, 
dear — you.  When  I  heard  your  voice  over  the  'phone, 
I  could  not  endure  the  house  any  longer.  I  set  out  to 
meet  you  on  the  road." 

By  this  time,  they  were  walking  past  the  grounds  of 
Wayside  Lodge.  Instinctively,  their  voices  fell  as  they 
came  near  the  house  now  haunted  by  the  shadow  of 
death.  Vesta  seemed  almost  reluctant  to  enter  her 
home,  but  her  lover,  impetuous  and  determined,  pressed 
on.  They  found  the  lower  rooms  in  darkness,  but 
Stanley  quickly  put  a  light  to  the  lamp  in  the  hall. 
Leaving  Vesta  standing  irresolute  near  the  main  en- 
trance, he  rushed  up  the  stairs. 

The  familiar  study,  at  first  sight,  appeared  to  be 
exactly  as  he  had  left  it.  The  light  burned  brightly 
and  flooded  the  room  with  illumination.  Inside  the 
grate,  a  big  fire  was  glowing.  A  kettle  was  singing 
near  the  fire.  Paul  Copeland  had  evidently  gone  to 
rest  with  a  supply  of  hot  grog  near  his  elbow.  With  a 
catch  of  the  breath,  Stanley  realized  how  little  the 
scene  had  changed  since  he  left  a  few  hours  before  mid- 
night. The  only  differences  his  keen  eyes  noted  were 
the  disorderly  litter  of  papers  drifting  about  and  the 
lower  temperature  of  the  apartment,  due  to  the  keen 
draughts  of  night  air  sweeping  in  through  the  wide 
open  windows. 

One  other  difference  there  was.  Paul  Copeland  re- 
mained, lying  back  in  the  camp  bedstead,  the  rough  bed- 
clothes about  him  in  some  disorder.  In  life  his  face 
had  seemed  to  be  dead,  but  now  in  death  it  appeared 
alive  with  horror.  The  body  was  raised  upon  the  pil- 
lows. The  head  was  turned  toward  the  door.  Stanley 

49 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


Waring,  for  the  first  time,  realized  the  shock  suffered 
by  Vesta  Copeland.  Aroused  in  the  middle  of  the  right 
to  come  without  preparation  on  that  still,  silent  hor- 
ror, Vesta  had  gone  through  a  trial  that  might  have 
turned  her  insane.  Instead  of  being  confronted  with 
Paul  Copeland's  face  with  its  habitual  suggestion  of 
yellowing  parchment,  Vesta  must  have  seen,  as  Stanley 
Waring  did,  that  awful  thing — the  same  man's  face, 
the  lean,  sharp  features  now  a  dull  purple,  while  the 
veins  on  the  forehead,  swollen  and  distended,  were  out- 
lined in  a  duller  shade  of  the  same  livid  hue.  The  one 
eye  was  still  open,  a  gap  of  shining  terror,  glazed, 
awful  in  its  dilated,  staring  concentration.  The  whole 
face  was  instinct  with  the  horror  of  a  death  agony, 
sudden  and  overwhelming.  The  reflection  of  that  ter- 
ror in  the  contorted  features  held  Waring  awed  and 
inactive,  and  when  he  came  to  move  again  he  felt  un- 
steady and  breathed  heavily  as  if  he  had  been  running 
to  the  point  of  exhaustion. 

Automatically,  Stanley  Waring  seized  the  wrist  and 
his  fingers  felt  for  the  pulse.  The  arm  was  stiff  and 
no  sign  of  life  was  apparent  to  the  touch.  Standing 
there,  holding  the  dead  man's  wrist,  Stanley  Waring's 
professional  training  prompted  him  to  one  conclu- 
sion. 

"Heart  failure.  A  sudden  seizure  in  the  night,"  he 
was  murmuring  to  himself,  when  his  keen,  inquiring 
eyes  took  in  several  details  his  first  shocked  glance  had 
not  noted. 

One  arm  of  the  dead  man  was  hanging  straight 
down.  A  heavy,  blue-metaled  revolver,  one  of  the 
pair  in  the  rack,  lay  upon  the  floor  as  it  had  fallen 

50 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


there  from  the  nerveless  grip.  Picking  up  the  weapon 
hastily,  Stanley  Waring  saw  one  cartridge  had  been 
discharged. 

Nor  was  this  all.  There  was  a  reason  for  the  look 
of  horror  on  the  dead  face.  Round  the  thin,  bare  neck 
was  bound  a  piece  of  wire,  a  thin,  round,  silver- 
threaded  string  of  the  kind  one  sees  used  for  the  deeper 
notes  of  the  violin.  The  wire  was  tightly  drawn  about 
the  throat  and  knotted  rudely  behind  the  neck.  War- 
ing's  alert  professional  eye  quickly  noted  that  this  wire 
and  the  manner  of  its  use  had  been  the  cause  of  death. 
No  sudden  seizure  in  the  night  had  brought  Paul  Cope- 
land  to  his  end.  He  had  died,  strangled  by  a  thug, 
the  bright  wire  round  his  neck  a  substitute  for  the 
silken  cord  more  often  used  in  such  loathsome  crimes. 
The  white  froth  upon  the  lips,  the  purple  of  the  swol- 
len face,  the  knotted  veins,  all  clamored  out  the  secret 
of  that  dreadful  death  agony. 

Quickly,  with  the  instinct  of  the  healer,  Stanley  War- 
ing unloosed  the  wire,  but  no  human  assistance  was  of 
any  avail  to  Paul  Copeland.  Though  the  body  was 
warm  he  was  quite  dead — murdered  in  a  manner  pecu- 
liarly merciless. 

All  this  Stanley  Waring  noted  in  a  few  seconds  from 
the  time  he  entered  the  room. 

Suddenly,  with  a  curdling  sense  of  horror,  he  also 
realized  that  the  forehead  of  the  dead  man  had  bled. 

He  walked  to  the  bathroom  and  returned  with  a 
damp  sponge.  Gently,  he  passed  it  over  the  still  fore- 
head, furrowed  as  it  was  with  the  pain  of  the  last 
awful  minutes.  And,  when  the  coagulated  blood  was 
wiped  away,  upon  the  forehead  was  revealed  a  red  scar. 

51 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


It  was  such  a  scar  as  might  have  been  made  by  a  sharp 
knife  and  possibly  had  been  imprinted  after  death. 
The  form  the  mark  took  was  that  of  a  cross — a  little 
red  cross  slashed  on  the  furrowed  temple.  To  Stanley 
Waring,  looking  down  on  the  still,  pain-puckered  face, 
the  cross  suggested  a  vengeance.  The  man  who  had 
strangled  the  life  out  of  Paul  Copeland's  body  had 
marked  his  forehead  with  a  sign  all  men  could  see; 
though,  looking  on  the  ghastly  symbol,  the  meaning  of 
the  scarlet  cross  remained  inscrutable. 


CHAPTER    VI 

THE  shock  of  the  discovery  prevented  Stanley 
Waring  from  examining  the  details  in  the  room 
likely  to  shed  any  light  upon  the  crime.  His 
first  thought,  after  realizing  the  tragedy  to  the  full, 
was  for  Vesta  Copeland. 

Paul  Copeland  lay  dead,  murdered  by  an  unknown 
hand,  and  nothing  could  be  done  for  him.  Stanley's 
immediate  duty  lay  with  the  living.  He  decided  on  re- 
turning to  Vesta  at  once  for  the  purpose  of  offering 
her  the  shelter  of  his  own  home.  Immediately  after, 
he  intended  to  seek  out  the  one  sergeant  of  police  sta- 
tioned in  the  village  and  to  invoke  his  assistance  in 
clearing  up  the  mystery. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  record  the  conversation,  little 
as  it  was,  between  the  two  lovers,  as  they  left  the  house 
of  shadows,  and  in  the  early  morning  walked  to  the 
residence  of  Dr.  Waring.  Horror,  wonder,  surprise 
were  apparent  in  the  girl's  mind.  Stanley  Waring's 
desire  was  to  soften  the  effects  of  the  shock  as  much 
as  possible,  and  this  he  attempted  to  do  with  phrases 
that  are  only  full  and  useful  coinage,  likely  to  bring 
ease  of  mind,  when  spoken  between  lovers.  As  they 
walked,  Vesta  leaning  heavily  on  Stanley's  arm,  she 
suddenly  saw  the  tragedy  of  the  night  as  it  affected 
herself.  Quietly,  Vesta  Copeland  realized  she  was  alone 
in  the  world,  without  parental  tie  or  control,  and  with- 
out a  relative  of  any  kind,  so  far  as  she  knew.  Out  of 

53 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


the  chaos  into  which  her  mind  had  been  thrown  emerged 
only  one  fact — Stanley  Waring,  the  lover  who  had 
come  to  her  in  the  last  few  weeks,  was  the  only  person 
she  knew,  with  any  degree  of  intimacy,  in  the  world. 
Be  sure  that  during  the  journey  to  the  Kings  College 
schoolhouse,  Vesta  and  Stanley  Waring  drew  nearer 
together,  in  the  shadow  of  misfortune,  than  they  had 
been  through  the  months  leading  to  the  confession  of 
their  love. 

It  did  not  take  Stanley  Waring  long  to  rouse  the 
house,  or  to  explain  to  the  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Waring 
the  needs  of  the  situation.  Dr.  Waring  offered  to  set 
out  at  once  for  Wayside  Lodge,  but  Stanley  said  that 
he  would  do  all  that  was  necessary.  Mrs.  Waring 
speedily  did  her  utmost  to  make  Vesta  welcome,  leaving 
Stanley  free  to  act  at  once.  Mounting  his  bicycle 
again,  he  traveled  as  quickly  as  possible  to  the  resi- 
dence of  the  police  official,  and  was  successful  in  finding 
Sergeant  Druce  just  in  from  night  duty. 

Briefly,  he  explained  all  he  knew  of  the  events  of  the 
night  to  the  surprise  of  the  Police  Sergeant,  who  was 
by  no  means  intelligent  enough  to  realize  all  that  was 
being  said  to  him.  At  last,  however,  the  officer  began 
to  understand  that  something  off  the  beaten  track  of 
crime  in  quiet  Missingham  had  occurred  and,  if  his  com- 
prehension did  not  cause  him  to  act  along  original  lines, 
he  certainly  began  to  move  according  to  the  stereo- 
typed police  formula  on  such  occasions. 

Stanley  Waring  left  the  Sergeant  to  summon  a 
constable  and  telephone  for  the  police  doctor  and  other 
interested  parties.  As  he  mounted  his  bicycle  to  ride 
back  to  Wayside  Lodge,  Missingham  began  slowly  to 

54 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


stir  to  a  realization  of  the  horror  that  had  stolen  into 
its  quiet  routine  during  the  night. 

Day  was  breaking  slowly  as  Stanley  Waring  returned 
and  let  himself  into  the  residence  he  had  known  as 
Paul  Copeland's  home.  The  quick  movement  in  the 
sharp  morning  air,  the  need  for  action,  had  cleared  his 
mind  from  the  first  overwhelming  sense  of  shock  and 
revulsion  of  feeling.  Cool  and  collected,  he  found  him- 
self eagerly  dwelling  on  one  desire — the  necessity  of 
making  a  dispassionate,  analytical  survey  of  the  scene 
of  the  tragedy,  before  representatives  of  the  law  took 
possession. 

Something  like  fifteen  minutes  elapsed  before  the 
brooding  quiet  of  Wayside  Lodge  was  disturbed  by 
newcomers  and  in  that  brief  space  of  time  Stanley 
Waring's  keen  eyes,  scientifically  directed  by  an  alert 
young  mind,  had  observed  much. 

In  a  measure,  he  was  able  to  reconstruct  the  crime 
from  details  that  remained.  A  decanter  containing 
spirits  was  near  Paul  Copeland.  A  tumbler,  with  a 
spoon  in  it,  stood  on  the  floor  at  the  bedside.  A  small 
kettle  was  still  steaming  away  near  the  fire.  Obviously, 
before  falling  to  sleep,  if  he  had  slept,  Paul  Copeland 
had  disrobed  for  the  night,  wrapped  himself  in  a  dress- 
ing gown,  and  lain  in  the  camp  bedstead,  quietly  drink- 
ing at  least  one  glass  of  hot  spirits.  The  probabilities 
to  Waring' s  mind  were  that  he  had  fallen  asleep,  with- 
out either  turning  out  the  lights  or  seeing  to  the  bolts 
of  the  folding  doors.  At  all  events,  the  folding  doors 
were  wide  open.  There  was  nothing  to  indicate  they 
had  been  forced.  It  puzzled  Stanley  to  know  whether 
Paul  Copeland,  usually  so  careful  to  protect  himself 

55 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


from  the  outside  world,  had  opened  the  door  after 
retiring  in  answer  to  a  summons  or,  with  unusual  care- 
lessness, on  this  one  night,  had  deliberately  left  his 
room  vulnerable  to  attack.  He  remembered  Vesta's 
dream  and  wondered  if  the  sounds  she  recalled — a  whis- 
tled signal — had  sounded  in  the  night  and  caused  Paul 
Copeland  to  answer  them.  No  physical  signs  helped 
him  in  the  matter.  The  position  of  the  corpse  on  the 
bed  was  such  that  one  could  not  tell  if  Copeland  had 
arisen  from  his  couch  and  been  thrown  back  upon  it,  a 
dead  man,  or  whether  he  had  maintained  his  position 
on  the  bed  all  through  the  grim  incidents  that  led  to 
his  murder. 

One  shot  had  been  fired.  Copeland's  dead  face  was 
apparently  looking  toward  the  door.  Really,  his 
glance  was  directed  toward  a  space  between  the  book- 
shelves and  a  projecting  wall,  where  a  small  safe  was 
fixed.  The  safe  was  open.  Copeland  had  only  fired 
once,  and  the  bullet  had  splintered  itself  in  the  wall, 
breaking  the  paper  and  tearing  the  plaster.  He  had 
hit  his  man,  too,  for  there  were  dabs  of  blood  near  the 
safe,  upon  the  table,  and  over  much  of  the  floor — blood 
in  spots  and  splashes,  stains  caused  by  some  one  bleed- 
ing from  the  arm  and  moving  rapidly.  Some  of  the 
splashes  were  trodden  into  shapeless  smudges.  That 
was  all  Stanley  Waring  could  make  of  the  tragedy, 
beyond  the  probable  fact  that  the  wounded  assailant 
had  made  one  dash  for  his  victim,  caught  him  before 
he  could  fire  again  and  had  ended  life  by  winding  a 
coil  of  wire  about  the  bare  neck.  Traces  of  blood  upon 
the  pillow,  over  Copeland's  shirt  front  and  about  the 
dead  man's  neck,  indicated  the  truth  of  this  reasoning. 

56 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


Rapidly,  Stanley  Waring  had  noted  all  these  points, 
and  was  about  to  give  up  hope  of  any  further  reading 
of  the  details  likely  to  supply  more  light,  when  his 
mind  focused  itself  on  the  papers  littered  about  the 
floor.  He  noticed  they  had  all  been  drawn  from  the 
safe.  There  were  spots  and  smudges  of  blood  on  many 
of  them.  The  documents  had  been  opened  hastily, 
glanced  at  and  thrown  aside.  Two  facts  emerged 
here — one  object  of  the  visit  had  been  murder  but  the 
second  object  was  certainly  not  robbery,  though  the 
murderer  had  been  eager  to  reach  the  safe. 

Among  the  loose  papers  were  many  bank  notes,  in 
values  ranging  from  five  pounds  to  fifty  pounds.  Paul 
Copeland  had  harbored  a  larger  sum  of  paper  money 
than  is  usually  held  in  private  houses.  Apart  from 
single  notes,  there  were  solid  wads  of  them  about  the 
floor.  All  had  been  thrown  carelessly  aside  by  the  man 
who  had  forced  his  way  into  Paul  Copeland's  study. 
As  Stanley  Waring  noted  this,  his  mind,  trained  to 
reason  quickly,  adopted  the  correlative  suggestion  that, 
though  money  was  not  the  object  of  the  visit,  the  mur- 
derer had  expected  to  find  something  in  the  safe — 
something  of  sufficient  import  to  cause  him  to  risk  his 
life,  after  the  committal  of  the  major  crime,  in  search- 
ing among  Paul  Copeland's  papers. 

Waring  was  turning  over  some  of  the  notes  about 
the  floor  and,  as  he  did  so,  his  mind  suddenly  became 
fixed  on  the  markings  of  one  strip  of  paper  lying  near 
to  the  safe. 

In  the  rapid  search  of  the  safe  the  murderer  had 
apparently  made  no  effort  to  staunch  the  blood  flowing 
from  his  wound.  Waring  assumed  that  the  wound  was 

57 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


trivial  and  either  in  the  hand,  or  near  it,  perhaps  upon 
the  fleshy  part  of  the  arm.  Upon  one  note,  the  kneel- 
ing, searching  figure  had  apparently  leaned  with  the 
whole  hand  outstretched  to  balance  the  body. 

Printed  on  the  crisp  surface  of  a  ten-pound  note  was 
the  outline  of  a  human  hand;  the  shape  faintly  but 
plainly  outlined  in  blood,  though  the  detail,  such  as  the 
lines  of  the  palm,  or  the  print  of  the  thumb,  was 
obscured.  One  obvious  peculiarity  was  indicated  by 
the  print.  The  hand  of  the  murderer — the  hand  that 
made  the  impression  on  the  note, — had  one  finger  miss- 
ing, the  little  or  fourth  finger.  While  three  fingers 
were  plainly  indicated,  the  hand  underneath  where  the 
fourth  finger  should  have  been  stopped  short  at  the 
fleshy  pad  of  the  palm. 

Stanley  Waring  was  examining  this  print  intently 
when  he  heard  footsteps  in  the  hall  and  his  solitary 
inspection  of  the  scene  of  the  crime  ended. 

Then  began  a  wearisome  process  of  investigation  by 
the  police. 

Sergeant  Druce  came  up,  mopping  his  brow  with 
a  red  pocket  handkerchief.  He  was  a  burly,  pink-faced 
man,  not  particularly  intelligent,  slightly  corpulent, 
and  very  official.  He  took  one  glance  at  the  room  and 
immediately  sent  P.  C.  Wiggins,  the  constable  he  had 
brought  along  from  his  night  duty,  to  telephone  to  his 
superiors  at  the  market  town  of  Aylesworth. 

"This,"  he  said,  with  grim  oracularity,  "is  a  job  for 
the  Superintendent  or  the  Chief  himself." 

Then  began  a  long  process  of  explanation  and  de- 
scription rendered  all  the  more  tedious  because  Ser- 
geant Druce  insisted  on  making  elaborate  entries  into 

58 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


an  official  notebook  with  a  very  stumpy  pencil,  the  point 
of  which  had  to  be  damped  between  his  lips  every  time 
he  had  entered  four  or  five  words. 

Dr.  Lethbury,  the  local  surgeon,  examined  the  body 
and  confirmed  the  statement  Stanley  Waring  had  vol- 
unteered as  to  the  cause  of  death. 

Laboriously,  Sergeant  Druce's  mind  grasped  after 
the  facts.  Into  the  official  notebooks  went  all  the  visi- 
ble details — how  the  body  appeared  when  he  first  saw 
it,  how  far  the  couch  was  from  the  window,  how  far 
the  window  was  from  the  safe,  how  far  the  safe  was 
from  the  door,  and  dozens  of  similar  exactitudes.  He 
entered  up  all  the  facts  as  outlined  to  him  by  Stanley 
Waring,  the  doctor's  opinion,  when  he  was  called,  the 
time  he  arrived,  and  who  was  present.  The  record  of 
the  crime  as  Sergeant  Druce  wrote  it  was  inter- 
minable. 

Stanley  Waring  soon  tired  of  the  endless  question- 
ing, particularly  as  Sergeant  Druce,  being  a  very  hu- 
man official  and  a  very  stupid  man,  not  only  carried 
on  his  investigations  in  the  belief  that  everyone  who 
had  any  relationship  with  the  dead  man  was  suspect, 
but  took  but  slight  pains  to  conceal  the  fact.  He  be- 
gan, instinctively,  to  treat  Stanley  Waring  as  a  hostile 
witness,  who  might  commit  himself. 

When  Stanley  said  Miss  Copeland  was  the  only  other 
person  in  the  house  at  the  time  of  the  murder,  and  that 
she  had  first  sent  for  himself,  Sergeant  Druce  nibbled 
the  point  of  his  pencil  and  said,  "Ah!"  as  though  the 
statement  amounted  to  a  confession  of  the  murder  it- 
self. 

"Why  did  she  send  for  you?"  the  Sergeant  asked, 
59 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


slowly,  after  an  interval  devoted  to  writing  down  the 
new  fact. 

"Because  I  believe  I  am  Miss  Copeland's  only  inti- 
mate friend  in  the  village,"  Stanley  replied,  frankly. 
"I  was  the  last  person,  outside  the  house,  to  see  Mr. 
Copeland  alive." 

"Ah !"  said  the  Sergeant,  with  increased  significance, 
and  laboriously  he  entered  the  words  in  his  book. 

"What  is  your  relationship  with  Miss  Copeland?" 
the  Sergeant  asked,  pointedly — pursing  his  stout  lips. 

Stanley  Waring's  manner  showed  traces  of  annoy- 
ance and  resentment. 

"Is  that  necessary,  officer?"  he  asked,  sternly. 

"I  think  it  will  be  very  necessary,  sooner  or  later," 
the  Sergeant  said,  with  a  sniff. 

"Then,  when  it  becomes  necessary,  I'll  give  all  the 
information  in  my  power,"  Stanley  replied,  "and  to  the 
proper  officers.  In  the  meantime,  permit  me  to  offer 
you  the  only  valuable  piece  of  evidence  available — an 
item  you  have  overlooked." 

As  Stanley  spoke,  he  picked  up  the  ten-pound  note 
lying  at  the  Sergeant's  feet,  and  called  his  attention  to 
the  detailed  print  of  the  murderer's  hand. 

"Ah!"  said  the  officer,  once  again. 

So  the  blundering,  stupid,  official-minded  Sergeant 
pursued  his  inquiry  until  the  Superintendent  drove  up 
to  Wayside  Lodge  in  a  gig  with  two  other  officials,  after 
which  the  investigation  was  continued  with  more  pre- 
cision and  to  better  purpose. 

By  the  time  they  came,  however,  Stanley  Waring  had 
been  irritated  by  the  tactless  sergeant  to  a  point  that 
made  him  contemptuous  of  the  police  methods.  Al- 

60 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


most  involuntarily,  the  immediate  business  of  construct- 
ing a  plausible  motive  for  the  crime  had  gripped  him 
with  the  fascination  it  has  for  minds  trained  to  ordered 
and  logical  analysis.  The  more  the  police  blundered 
along  on  the  official  humdrum  lines,  the  keener  grew 
his  desire  to  take  a  direct  hand  in  the  investigation. 
When  all  the  available  material  had  been  gathered  at 
the  house,  Stanley  left  Wayside  Lodge  for  his  home. 
And  only  on  the  way  to  the  schoolhouse  did  he  realize, 
with  a  thrill  of  exultation,  that,  almost  unconsciously, 
he  had  withheld  one  important  item  in  his  knowledge 
of  Copeland  and  the  Wayside  Lodge  household — the 
package  of  papers  entrusted  to  him  on  the  evening  pre- 
ceding the  crime  by  the  man  who  then  believed  he  had 
only  a  few  hours  to  live. 

Outside  Wayside  Lodge,  a  crowd  was  assembling. 
With  the  light  of  morning,  the  sinister  news  had 
spread  through  the  village,  and,  though  there  was  noth- 
ing now  to  see  except  the  parts  of  the  house  visible 
from  the  road,  and  only  the  wildest  rumors  to  hear, 
from  graybeard  to  village  boy,  the  residents  turned  up 
and  remained  to  discuss  the  mystery  of  Paul  Copeland. 
All  they  knew  was  that  the  stranger  in  their  midst  was 
dead,  and  they  made  the  most  of  the  fact.  And  when 
one  comes  to  think  of  it — that  is  all  anyone  knew  in 
the  village,  including  the  police,  unless  there  lurked 
about  the  quiet  place  the  man  who  had  made  a  second 
in  the  chamber  with  Paul  Copeland  before  the  deceased 
fell  back  into  the  sleep  that  knows  no  awakening. 


CHAPTER    VII 

LATE  on  the  night  of  the  murder,  Stanley  Waring 
found  the  necessary  privacy  for  a  careful  ex- 
amination of  the  papers  entrusted  to  him  by 
Paul  Copeland. 

The  young  doctor  anticipated  that  the  blue  envelope 
would  contain  at  least  one  or  two  illuminating  side- 
lights on  the  strange  and  ghastly  occurrence  at  Way- 
side Lodge,  but  he  was  scarcely  prepared  to  find  him- 
self cast  at  a  bound  into  a  whirlpool  of  adventure — 
into  the  very  vortex  of  a  grotesque  romance. 

In  these  drab  days,  few  lives  are  given  the  privilege 
of  adventure.  The  bell  rings,  the  machinery  clangs, 
the  overseer  watches  and  we,  bits  of  human  machinery, 
stand  by  superintending  the  revolutions  of  a  limited 
number  of  wheels.  But  here  and  there,  one  more  lucky 
than  his  fellows  is  drawn  into  the  train  of  the  big 
event  and,  for  him,  life  becomes  a  palpitating  adven- 
ture. Thus  a  farm  hand  may  find  himself  riding  the 
tumbling  sea  into  the  unknown;  a  day  laborer  may 
move  with  marching  armies ;  an  artisan  may,  conceiv- 
ably, lead  a  revolution. 

Stanley  Waring's  life,  to  that  point,  had  been  un- 
eventful enough.  He  had  been  brought  up  in  the  peace- 
ful seclusion  of  the  schoolhouse  in  a  home  not  wealthy 
though  assured  of  a  serene  atmosphere  of  comfort, 
evenly  maintained.  Years  at  a  public  school  had  been 
followed  by  preparation  for  a  profession.  Such  ad- 

62 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


ventures  as  he  had  enjoyed  had  come  largely  from  the 
playing  fields,  or  out  of  the  desultory  round  of  country 
sport.  Life  had  been  more  or  less  mapped  out  for 
him  and  his  eyes  were  turned  to  a  future  that  promised 
to  be  as  carefully  regulated  as  the  past.  Waring 
would  go  into  one  of  the  public  services  or,  failing  that, 
into  private  practice.  Before  him  stretched  years  de- 
voted to  the  practice  of  medicine — an  unvarying  rou- 
tine, the  only  change  likely  to  occur  being  advances 
that  might  come  with  time  in  matters  related  to  pro- 
fessional status  or  prestige. 

As  he  sat  breaking  the  sealed  envelope,  Waring  did 
not  realize  that  by  tearing  the  tough,  linenized  paper 
he  was  actually  breaking  up  the  even  tenor  of  his  own 
life. 

When  Stanley  Waring  settled  down  in  his  own  bed- 
room to  a  leisurely  perusal  of  the  dead  man's  papers, 
he  was  one  of  a  thousand  men  destined  for  a  profes- 
sional career,  with  a  limited  horizon. 

When  the  investigation  had  been  completed,  he  had 
been  swept  from  quiet  surroundings  into  the  very  cen- 
ter of  a  strange  drama,  covering  a  period  of  a  quarter 
of  a  century,  influencing  many  lives,  and  touching 
events  that  had  been,  or  were  being,  worked  out  with 
half  the  world  as  a  stage. 

Stanley  was  certainly  curious  as  he  broke  into  the 
bulky  package,  but  mere  curiosity  ceased  to  be  the 
impulse  keeping  his  mind  on  the  subject  for  the  better 
part  of  the  night. 

The  contents  of  the  bulky  envelope  were  certainly 
very  odd. 

Out  of  the  mass  of  papers,  two  items  dropped  to  the 

63 


THE    RED    COLONEL 


floor,  because  of  their  size,  which  had  enabled  them  to 
slip  out  of  the  binding  red  tape. 

One  was  a  slip  of  Bristol  board,  in  appearance  like  a 
postcard  with  the  white  surface  very  much  thumbed 
and  soiled. 

On  this  card  was  drawn  a  crude  design — apparently 
meaningless.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  such  a  de- 
sign, but  it  took  up  about  two  inches  of  space  in  the 
center  of  the  cardboard,  and  was  about  one  inch  and  a 
half  deep.  As  nearly  as  the  author  can  remember,  it 
followed  closely  the  form  of  the  attached  reproduction. 


Stanley  looked  at  the  drawing  carefully,  but  could 
make  little  of  it,  and  the  more  he  looked,  the  less  inter- 
esting it  seemed  to  become.  It  might  have  been  an 
idle  man's  attempt  to  reproduce  some  shape  in  a  room, 
such  as  a  panel  in  a  door,  a  cornice  to  some  piece  of 
woodwork,  even  a  quaint  specimen  of  oak  carving.  The 
drawing  might  have  represented  something  seen  from 
a  window  or  in  the  street — the  molding  over  an  arch- 
way, a  section  of  the  ornamentation  upon  a  stone  pil- 
lar, a  design  above  a  window  space.  It  might  have 
been  any  of  these  things  or  none  of  them.  The  actual 
drawing  seemed  the  kind  of  thing  achieved  when  a  mo- 

64 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


ment  of  mental  vacancy  impels  an  idle  hand  to  take  a 
pencil  and  attempt  to  outline  some  object  familiar  to 
the  eye.  Underneath  were  roughly  printed  the  letters 
and  numerals,  Fl — 3%  BED — RM.  Into  this  inscrip- 
tion, Waring  could  read  no  satisfactory  meaning, 
though  his  attention  played  round- the  central  group- 
ing of  characters — 32  BED. 

His  mind,  trained  to  the  medical  point  of  view,  visu- 
alized a  numbered  hospital  bed,  Paul  Copeland  lying 
upon  it,  perhaps  after  the  accident  that  had,  among 
other  things,  destroyed  his  eye.  Waring  imagined  him, 
in  the  days  of  his  convalescence,  testing  the  sight  of 
the  remaining  eye  by  attempting  to  reproduce  some 
decorative  object,  grown  familiar  to  him  by  its  very 
monotony,  as  he  lay  confined  in  the  quiet  ward. 

The  second  object  was  undoubtedly  an  unusually 
shaped  key. 

This  discovered  a  stem  of  thin  metal  and  the  part 
that  broadened  out  to  fit  the  lock  and  turn  it  consisted 
of  two  large  uneven  teeth.  The  metal  was  rusty  and 
had  not  been  used,  probably,  for  years.  An  odd  feature 
of  this  instrument  was  that  the  handle,  instead  of  being 
the  flat,  oval  loop  observed  in  most  keys,  to  enable 
them  to  be  strung  together,  was  mounted  into  a  round 
piece  of  stone,  very  much  in  the  way  a  modern  hatpin 
joins  the  ornamented  head  or  button.  The  handle  of 
the  key  was  a  sort  of  button  and  the  top  of  the  stone 
reproduced  exactly  one  of  the  two  decorations  in  the 
design  upon  the  postcard.  Thus : 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Beyond  noting  the  similarity  and  wondering,  if,  in 
an  idle  moment,  Paul  Copeland  had  attempted  to  carve 
a  portion  of  his  own  crude  design,  Stanley  Waring 
passed  on  to  a  consideration  of  the  other  papers,  his 
interest  rather  whetted  than  otherwise  by  the  fact  that 
the  dead  man  should  have  hoarded  such  strange  trifles, 
or  attached  importance  to  them. 

A  small  pocket  diary,  for  the  year  1890,  was  among 
the  contents  of  the  envelope.  It  had  been  freely  used 
for  memoranda  and  evidently  over  many  years.  Thus, 
while  the  year  1890  contained  cryptic  and  apparently 
meaningless  entries,  from  1891  the  character  of  the 
record  changed,  and  pages  were  devoted  to  what  seemed 
to  be  a  rough  memorandum  of  Copeland's  movements 
about  the  world,  down  to  his  last  journey  to  Missing- 
ham. 

Some  of  the  meaningless  entries  may  be  noted  by  the 
curious.  They  occurred  in  the  divisions  of  the  diary 
allotted  to  each  day.  The  entries  were  mostly  the 
same  in  character.  First,  there  was  an  initial,  the 
name  of  a  city  or  town,  then  a  sum  of  money,  followed 
by  an  amount  that  represented  about  a  third  of  the 
preceding  figures.  Thus,  on  January  27,  in  1890,  was 
the  following  entry:  "Mrs.  A.,  New  York,  £10,000. 
£3,000."  Another  entry  would  read  very  much  in  the 
same  way.  "Messrs.  A.  &  C.,  Chicago,  £400.  £100," 
was  an  entry  appearing  late  in  February.  These  items 
were  monotonously  similar  in  character.  Where  they 
differed,  the  entries  seemed  to  have  a  more  personal 
sound.  In  May  appeared  this  entry:  "K.  Hotel. 
Wise.  R.  departed."  Another  change  was  "Miss  A. 
Jack  blew.  A  rum  start."  All  the  entries  of  this 

66 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


character  were  of  a  type,  evidently  made  in  the  same 
year,  and  recorded  under  the  dates  associated  with  the 
incidents  or  transactions  they  represented. 

Another  paper,  much  worn  by  being  often  folded, 
carried  a  more  definite  suggestion  to  Stanley  Waring's 
mind.  It  was  a  rough  photograph  of  a  man's  hand — 
of  the  type  recorded  by  the  police.  The  photograph 
was  unmounted  and  indeed,  by  being  folded  in  half,  was 
practically  severed  into  two  pieces.  The  print,  when 
laid  out  flat,  and  joined  together,  showed  the  palm 
and  represented  a  long,  slim  hand  that,  hooked,  might 
have  taken  the  shape  of  a  claw.  The  lines  and  marks 
on  the  palm  and  fingers  were  clearly  shown.  On  the 
back  of  the  photograph  were  the  words  in  capitals : 
"THE  RED  COLONEL."  There  was  no  further  ex- 
planation of  the  presence  of  this  unusual  photograph 
among  the  bundle  of  papers. 

Stanley  Waring  was  getting  a  trifle  impatient  as  he 
went  through  these  trifles  and  found  himself  inclined 
to  look  upon  Paul  Copeland  as  a  madman,  when  he 
thought  of  the  concern  displayed  by  the  owner  of  this 
grotesque  hotch-potch  of  memoranda  to  see  them  in 
the  safe  keeping  of  another  person.  A  smile  was  upon 
his  features  as  he  turned  to  the  next  set  of  papers, 
which  consisted  of  about  six  sheets  of  foolscap,  neatly 
folded.  Stanley's  smile  was  the  reflex  of  his  thoughts, 
for,  as  he  unfolded  the  crackling  pages,  he  was  really 
wondering  what  further  eccentric  documents  the  dead 
man,  Copeland,  had  thought  it  worth  while  to  hoard. 

He  was  not  left  long  in  doubt,  and  he  had  not  read 
very  far  before  the  smile  faded  from  his  face,  while  the 
close  attention  he  displayed  showed  how  deeply  the 

67 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


narrative  was  moving  him.  Indeed,  he  had  not  read 
half  a  page,  when,  with  some  excitement,  he  stopped  to 
look  over  all  the  sheets,  in  doubt  as  to  their  authen- 
ticity. Stanley  noted,  as  he  looked  over  the  papers, 
that  the  manuscript  had  been  written  at  different  in- 
tervals, for  the  inks  used  were  not  the  same,  nor  were 
the  sheets  all  of  the  same  quality  of  paper. 

Stanley  Waring  turned  back  to  the  beginning  and 
read  the  following  statement.  The  text  was  written  in 
the  characters  likely  to  be  employed  by  a  man  of  some 
education  and  refinement.  The  language  used  was  di- 
rect— almost  bald.  The  writer  was  evidently  not  in 
the  habit  of  making  long  statements.  The  baldness 
of  the  phraseology  enabled  the  reader  to  discover  the 
meaning  of  the  document  with  the  greatest  ease — the 
ruggedness  of  the  phrasing  carried  with  it  a  sense  of 
conviction,  deepening  as  Stanley  Waring  read  on.  The 
document  read  as  follows: 

I  have  re-written  the  first  page  because  I  believe  this 
paper  will  fall  into  the  hands  of  an  honorable  man.  I 
write  this  brief  account  of  myself,  knowing  a  certain  fate 
will  befall  me.  My  hope  is  that  when  the  end  comes  I 
shall  be  able  to  protect  my  step-daughter,  Vesta  Copeland, 
from  the  consequences  of  her  association  with  me.  As  I 
see  things  now,  this  will  fall  into  the  hands  of  a  man  who 
is  likely  to  be  my  step-daughter's  husband.  It  will  tell  him 
much  that  he  is  entitled  to  know — and  no  more. 

There  was  a  break  in  the  manuscript  here.  The  fore- 
going had  evidently  been  written  within  a  short  time 
preceding  the  tragedy.  The  story  of  Copeland's  life, 
or  as  much  of  it  as  he  chose  to  reveal,  and  as  it  was 
originally  written,  began  as  follows: 

68 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


My  name  is  not  Copeland.  It  never  was.  It  has  served 
me  as  a  name  for  twenty  years  or  more.  My  real  name  I 
hope  will  never  be  known.  If  I  had  to  live  my  life  over 
again,  I  might  be  a  different  man.  I  do  not  know.  I  only 
know  what  I  am  after  I  have  lived  my  life.  I  am  glad 
Vesta  Copeland,  who  has  been  my  affectionate  companion 
for  the  last  fifteen  years,  is  no  child  of  mine.  She  was  the 
child  of  the  only  woman  I  called  wife  by  an  earlier  mar- 
riage— as  good  a  woman  as  ever  lived.  I  am  glad  no  child 
is  cursed  with  my  blood  or  any  of  the  impulses  that  have 
gone  to  make  my  life. 

I  stand  in  fear  of  death.  I  am  one  of  the  Red  Four.  If 
that  does  not  convey  anything  to  the  reader,  all  the  better. 
There  are,  besides  myself,  three  surviving  members  of  this 
group  of  criminals,  so  far  as  I  know — the  Red  Colonel,  the 
Warbler  and  Cunning.  From  these  three  men  I  live  in  fear 
of  violence.  Sooner  or  later  I  shall  probably  die  at  their 
hands.  The  man  I  fear  the  most  is  the  one-time  friend  and 
partner  I  knew  as  the  Red  Colonel.  A  history  of  the 
doings  of  the  Red  Four  up  to  1890  will  account  for  what 
I  have  been  since — a  wanderer.  The  man  who  would  know 
the  cause  of  my  death  should  seek  for  the  reason  among 
the  facts  made  public  up  to  the  time  the  group  was  silenced, 
and  temporarily  separated.  I  am  not  concerned  about  the 
fates  of  these  three  men.  If  we  meet  on  this  earth,  the 
chances  are  I  die.  Should  any  man  with  a  nose  for  crim- 
inal detection  seek  to  investigate  my  murder,  if  it  occur, 
and  bring  the  crime,  if  my  murder  can  be  called  a  crime, 
home  to  the  guilty  parties,  he  will  add  a  remarkable  chap- 
ter to  the  annals  of  detected  crime,  and  his  achievement 
will  be  a  personal  triumph  in  a  field  where  the  police  of 
half  a  world  have  failed.  The  man  who  attempts  to  collect 
these  laurels  will  only  succeed  after  taking  his  life  in  his 
hands  and  running  the  risk  of  a  failure  that  would  mean 
certain  death. 

69 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


You,  who  read  this,  are  warned  of  the  danger  of  associa- 
tion with  me.  I  hold  the  proceeds  of  a  dozen  world-famous 
jewel  robberies.  The  key  to  their  whereabouts  is  in  this 
envelope.  The  object  of  the  Red  Colonel's  search  is  first 
vengeance  and,  second,  the  hope  of  recovering  a  treasure  I 
have  hidden — the  jewels,  many  of  them  historical  pieces,  of 
which  I  could  not  dispose.  The  treasure  is  most  likely  to 
fall  to  the  man  who  has  possession  of  the  house  standing 
in  the  name  of  my  step-daughter  and  who  also  holds  the 
key,  as  you  do  now.  A  knowledge  of  the  possession  of 
these  facts  will  bring  the  attention  of  the  three  remaining 
members  of  the  Red  Four,  and  is  fraught  with  grave  dan- 
ger to  the  possessor  of  these  documents.  I  have  never  tried 
to  live  within  the  code  of  any  scheme  of  morality,  but  I 
would  say  here,  my  advice  to  the  reader  of  this  history  is 
that  he  shall  never  seek  the  hiding-place  of  the  jewels. 
Too  weak  a  man  to  give  up  the  prospect  of  realizing  this 
hoarded  wealth,  I  have  found  its  possession  a  curse,  bring- 
ing me  constantly  in  terror  of  death  and  in  the  end,  I  be- 
lieve, face  to  face  with  the  horror  itself. 

The  object  of  my  confession  is  simply  this:  My  step- 
daughter has  interests  that  should  be  safeguarded.  I  owe 
it  to  her  devotion  to  make  these  interests  secure.  She  owns 
by  right  a  small  private  fortune  amounting  to  not  more 
than  £10,000.  It  comes  from  her  mother,  is  free  from  all 
taint,  and  is  invested  in  her  name.  A  trusted  solicitor,  Mr. 
Mark  S.  James,  one  of  the  few  honest  men  I  have  known, 
will  give  all  necessary  particulars.  All  other  properties 
apart  from  this  estate — a  considerable  amount — are  mine, 
and  may  pass  to  the  holder  of  this  paper  if  he  can  realize 
them.  Mr.  James  is  to  be  found  at  14a  Temple  Court, 
Lincoln's  Inn.  His  discretion  is  to  be  relied  upon. 

I  earnestly  entreat  the  reader  of  this 

The  narrative  was  broken  here.     The  last  page  of 
70 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


foolscap  showed  the  writing  to  be  of  recent  date  and 
in  the  form  of  an  addendum,  revised  for  the  personal 
attention  of  Stanley  Waring. 

I  earnestly  entreat  the  reader  of  this,  Stanley  Waring, 
to  keep  the  information  to  himself.  Vesta  Copeland's  pri- 
vate fortune,  such  as  it  is,  is  secured  to  her,  and  the  neces- 
sary proofs  of  identification  involve  no  reference  to  myself. 
An  attempt  to  secure  my  own  revenues  will  involve  the 
attention  of  the  Red  Colonel  and  his  satellites,  and  a  pub- 
licity that  must  involve  Vesta  in  a  knowledge  of  my  career, 
if  not  in  actual  personal  danger.  I  offer  no  excuses  for  my 
own  share  in  life.  What  was  to  be  has  been.  I  have  paid 
in  full.  It  is  too  late  to  think  of  repentance  after  what  I 
have  done.  To-night,  I  no  longer  fear.  Nature  has  passed 
sentence  of  death  upon  me.  I  wander  no  more.  A  day  or 
two,  more  or  less,  makes  no  matter.  Instead  of  evading,  I 
voluntarily  remain  to  meet  the  Red  Colonel.  If  a  red  cross 
is  in  any  way  associated  with  my  death,  the  Red  Colonel 
has  added  one  more  murder  to  his  lengthening  toll  on 
human  life — and  has  also  won  his  revenge.  I  still  cling  to 
the  secret  of  the  missing  gems  with  the  tenacity  of  a  man 
who  would  thwart  a  ruthless  enemy  to  the  end. 

Paul  Copeland's  narrative  ended  here. 

The  conclusion  left  Stanley  Waring  wandering  in  a 
wide  field  of  speculation.  It  kept  him  awake,  out  of 
his  bed,  until  the  early  morning.  Goading  him  was  the 
impulse  first  stirred  by  Sergeant  Druce — to  solve  the 
mystery  of  Paul  Copeland's  last  hours  for  himself. 
His  knowledge  of  the  current  history  of  the  world 
gave  color  to  the  strange  story  he  had  read.  He  knew 
sufficient  of  the  annals  of  crime  to  realize  that  Paul 
Copeland,  who  had  died  under  the  sign  of  the  little 

71 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


cross,  in  proof  of  the  Red  Colonel's  lust  to  kill,  was 
one  of  the  four  greatest  scoundrels  in  the  world;  a 
man  whose  death  in  the  rural  backwater  of  Missingham 
called  for  no  human  pity;  a  man  whose  life  won  no 
claim  to  expiation,  even  when  judged  in  the  light  of  the 
ruthless  cruelty  of  his  end. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

THE  inquest  on  Paul  Copeland  was  opened  the 
following  day.  Twelve  good  men  and  true, 
but  not  necessarily  the  most  intelligent  of  Mis- 
singham's  householders,  were  occupied  the  greater  part 
of  the  day  in  considering  the  circumstances  surround- 
ing the  end  of  the  occupier  of  Wayside  Lodge.  Their 
deliberations  took  place  in  the  large  dining  room  of 
the  Black  Lion. 

Mr.  Coroner  Liptrot  presided  over  the  inquiry.  He 
was  a  fussy  lawyer  clad  in  farmer's  tweeds,  who  came 
behind  a  very  fast  trotter,  from  the  market  town.  Mr. 
Liptrot's  collar,  nose,  complexion  and  manner  were 
high,  and  one  imagined  him  gaining  these  high  quali- 
ties by  systematic  high  living  on  high  game,  highly 
seasoned  dishes,  and  highly  matured  Stilton  cheese. 
The  tender,  roseate  hue  of  his  florid  cheeks  might  have 
been  assisted  by  the  steady  development  of  a  discrimin- 
ating taste  for  any  of  the  red  wines.  His  method  of 
conducting  the  inquiry  was  to  ask  questions  wholly 
irrelevant  and  to  fail  in  understanding  the  answers. 
The  less  he  understood,  the  wiser  he  looked,  and  this 
atmosphere  of  wisdom,  based  on  a  foundation  of  dense 
ignorance,  had  made  his  legal  opinion  valuable  through 
half  an  agricultural  county  and  brought  him  consid- 
erable professional  emolument. 

Mr.  Coroner  Liptrot  was  assisted  by  a  slim  clerk 
who  took  copious  notes  and  a  stout  Superintendent  of 

73 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


Police,  who  barked  out  orders  to  Sergeant  Druce. 
There  were  also  present  a  number  of  reporters,  whose 
status  on  the  press  could  be  deduced  by  their  attitude 
to  the  inquiry.  The  pale  youth  with  the  unruly  hair, 
and  the  kind  of  pimple  developed  by  a  long  course  of 
totally  missed  or  hastily  bolted  meals,  took  every  word, 
and  his  report  ran  to  six  columns  in  the  county  weekly. 
The  florid  young  men,  representing  the  London  dailies, 
maintained  a  healthy  contempt  for  the  proceedings  for 
the  first  hour  and,  after,  took  turns  in  going  to  sleep, 
or  visiting  the  snuggery  at  the  Black  Lion. 

For  the  purpose  of  this  narrative,  it  is  not  neces- 
sary to  give  so  full  a  report  as  was  presented  by  the 
long-haired  youth  from  the  farmer's  weekly.  The  in- 
quest sat  through  the  best  part  of  the  day  and  dis- 
covered nothing,  as  is  the  habit  of  many  public  in- 
quiries, held  in  busier  centers  than  Missingham.  It 
heard  all  the  facts,  investigated  much  rumor,  and  con- 
sidered a  variety  of  theories.  The  result  provided  food 
for  a  volume  of  hazy  speculation,  but  it  did  not  prove 
more  than  the  simple  fact  that  Paul  Copeland 
had  died,  strangled  by  a  piece  of  wire,  "pro- 
duced" with  a  sensational  effect,  which  the  reporters 
duly  noted. 

Testimony  of  the  dramatic  order  came  with  the  ref- 
erence to  the  note  having  upon  it  the  imprint  of  a  hand, 
made  by  Sergeant  Druce. 

"Was  this  the  only  note?"  asked  the  Coroner. 

"No,  sir,"  the  Sergeant  replied.  "There  were  many 
others." 

"How  many?"  snapped  Mr.  Liptrot. 

"To  the  amount  of  nine  hundred  and  forty-five 
74 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


pounds,  chiefly  in  fifties,  twenties  and  fives,"  the  Ser- 
geant replied. 

"That  is  an  unusual  amount  to  find  in  a  private 
house — eh  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Have  you  any  idea  why  they  were  there?" 

"No."  " 

"Where  was  this  note,  with  the  print  on  it,  found?" 

"On  the  floor  of  the  study.  The  man  apparently 
had  been  wounded  and  was  bleeding.  From  the  posi- 
tion of  the  note,  he  was  kneeling  as  he  searched  the 
papers  and  balancing  himself  on  the  hand  that  left  the 
stain." 

The  note  was  handed  round  and  created  some  in- 
quiry— the  chief  source  of  interest  being  the  missing 
fourth  finger. 

The  Coroner  stated  the  obvious. 

"I  take  it  the  note  suggests  to  most  of  us  that  the 
man  whose  left  hand  is  outlined  on  it  had  the  fourth 
finger  missing?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Sergeant. 

"Has  search  been  made  in  the  district  for  a  man 
mutilated  in  that  manner?" 

"Yes." 

"With  any  success?" 

"No." 

The  truth  was  the  police  had  jumped  at  this  obvi- 
ous clue  to  such  purpose  that  reports  relating  to  people 
who  had  only  three  fingers  on  one  hand  were  pouring 
into  the  country  offices  with  a  result  that  made  the 
chance  of  detecting  the  real  criminal  more  difficult  than 
it  was  at  the  beginning. 

75 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Vesta  Copeland  was  the  next  witness  called.  Since 
the  shock,  she  had  remained  quietly  in  the  home  circle 
at  Dr.  Waring's  residence  and  much  of  her  old  com- 
posure and  self-control  had  returned.  The  tenderness 
of  her  lover  and  his  relations  had  done  much  to  dis- 
pel the  first  effects  of  the  ordeal  through  which  she 
had  passed.  She  had  walked  to  the  inquiry  with  Stan- 
ley Waring  and  they  had  set  out  early  so  that  the 
journey  could  be  lengthened.  The  movement  through 
the  crisp  air  of  a  bright  morning  had  braced  Vesta 
Copeland,  and  Stanley  Waring's  cheerful,  vigorous  per- 
sonality had  done  much  to  take  her  thoughts  from  the 
tragedy  she  had  witnessed  at  Wayside  Lodge. 

She  took  up  her  position  in  the  court,  sitting  near 
the  Coroner,  in  the  chair  vacated  by  Sergeant  Druce — 
the  composure  of  her  manner  being  itself  a  tribute  to 
the  physical  strength  underlying  her  apparent  delicacy. 
The  face,  pale  when  contrasted  with  the  dark  quality 
of  her  hair,  betrayed  no  tremor.  Her  answers  to  each 
question  put  by  the  Coroner  were  clear  and  collected, 
and  her  voice  was  well  modulated;  even  the  most  com- 
monplace sentence  falling  with  a  rounded,  silvery  ca- 
dence, the  beauty  of  sound  warming  the  drab,  frigid 
atmosphere  of  the  room  in  which  the  inquiry  was  held. 
Stanley  Waring,  sitting  near  the  entrance,  never  ad- 
mired Vesta  Copeland  more  than  he  did  the  day  he  saw 
her,  a  center  of  beauty  in  a  room  and  surroundings  so 
commonplace  that  they  served  to  isolate  and  enhance 
her  charm. 

Vesta  Copeland  gave  a  recital  of  the  facts  already 
furnished  to  the  reader,  and  to  them  she  had  little  or 
nothing  to  add.  Naturally,  there  was  a  desire  to  see 

76 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


how  far  she  could  throw  any  light  on  her  father's  pa^t, 
and  after  she  had  given  the  unique  details  of  her  evi- 
dence this  side  of  the  inquiry  was  developed  by  the 
foreman  of  the  jury. 

"Have  you  any  idea  who  Mr.  Copeland's  assailant 
was?"  the  foreman  asked. 

"No,"  Vesta  replied. 

"Had  you  any  reason  to  believe  he  was  in  any  per- 
sonal danger?" 

Vesta  hesitated  for  a  moment  before  replying. 

"Well,  I  had  no  definite  reason;  but  there  has  been 
much  in  our  life  together  that  I  did  not  understand, 
and  do  not  even  now,"  she  said,  slowly. 

"Could  you  tell  the  jury  any  indefinite  reasons  you 
might  have  had,  associated  with  the  safety  or  danger 
of  the  deceased?"  another  juror  asked. 

"No — beyond  the  fact  that  all  the  time  we  lived  to- 
gether he  had  a  desire  to  conceal  his  identity 
from  strangers  and  frequently  moved  from  place  to 
place." 

"What  reason  did  he  give  for  these  removals?" 

"None — he  changed  in  his  manner  and  grew  rest- 
less ;  then  we  usually  had  to  move  on." 

"How  did  he  change?" 

"Well — he  grew  irritable  and  nervous.  Sometimes 
he  seemed  to  be  afraid ;  at  least,  I  thought  so." 

"Afraid  of  what?" 

"I  don't  know." 

The  foreman  of  the  jury  paused  a  moment. 

"He  never  told  you  anything  to  lead  you  to  suppose 
he  feared  an  attack  upon  himself?" 

"Never — he  told  me  nothing.  When  I  come  to  look 
77 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


back,  I  think  I  know  as  little  of  my  father  as  any 
one." 

"You  don't  know  where  he  came  from,  for  instance  ?" 

"No — I  was  educated  away  from  home.  Almost  my 
earliest  recollections  were  of  the  Convent.  Perhaps 
when  I  was  fourteen  I  was  taken  to  meet  my  father  in 
London,  and  beyond  the  fact  that  we  had  lived  together 
since  until  his  death,  I  know  nothing." 

"Do  you  know  whether  he  was  in  business?" 

"No." 

"Do  you  know  where  his  income  came  from?" 

"No." 

"Pie  was  a  wealthy  man — you  knew  that?" 

"I  always  knew  we  had  sufficient  means  for  our  re- 
quirements," the  girl  said,  somewhat  curtly. 

"Do  you  think  he  anticipated  any  danger  on  the 
day  or  night  of  the  murder?"  the  Superintendent 
asked. 

"Yes,"  Vesta  said,  after  a  short  pause. 

"Why?" 

"Because  his  manner  altered  in  a  way  I  had  learnt 
to  know.  In  the  afternoon  of  the  murder  he  began 
to  speak  of  moving  away  from  Missingham,  and  in 
the  evening  he  betrayed  what  I  thought  were  signs  of 
terror."  Here  Vesta  Copeland  recounted  Paul  Cope- 
land's  appearance  and  actions  at  the  moment  when  she 
and  Waring  entered  the  house  together  on  the  night 
of  the  murder. 

"He  might  have  had  a  warning?" 

"I  would  rather  say  he  had  some  ground  for  uneasi- 
ness in  his  own  mind." 

"He  did  not  say  what  that  was?" 

78 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"No." 

"And  you  have  no  idea  of  any  influence  at  work  cal- 
culated to  make  him  uneasy?" 

"No." 

"Can  you  throw  any  light  on  the  red  cross  marked 
upon  his  forehead,  as  described  by  Sergeant  Druce  ?" 

"No,"  replied  Vesta,  with  a  slight  shudder. 

Stanley  Waring  was  called  to  speak  of  being  sum- 
moned to  the  Lodge  and  to  tell  his  story  of  the  dis- 
covery of  the  body.  He  did  not  add  anything  further 
to  the  details  given  to  the  police. 

The  Coroner  questioned  him  closely  as  to  his  con- 
nection with  the  dead  man. 

"You  saw  him  alive  on  the  night  of  the  murder?" 
he  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  Waring.  "I  had  a  long  conversation 
with  him." 

"What  form  did  it  take?" 

"He  consulted  me  about  his  health,  after  the  moment 
of  his  collapse  upon  the  stairs." 

"Was  it  not  good?" 

"No — I  was  obliged  to  tell  Mr.  Copeland  that  his 
heart  was  very  bad — that  his  life  hung  practically  by 
a  thread." 

"Did  that  appear  to  distress  him?" 

"Not  unduly — he  suspected  the  condition  himself." 

Superintendent  Waldron  gave  a  mass  of  detailed  evi- 
dence relating  to  the  appearance  of  the  room  and  the 
effects  of  the  dead  man.  He  asked  for  time  to  at- 
tempt to  trace  his  movements  and  connections.  He 
spoke,  too,  of  the  gossip  about  Missingham  relating  to 
Paul  Copeland  being  seen  in  the  High  Street  on  the 

79 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


morning  of  the  murder.  He  had  been  observed  to 
stagger  in  the  street  as  if  taken  suddenly  ill.  Further 
evidence  was  given  on  this  point,  but  beyond  stating 
that  Paul  Copeland  was  apparently  distressed  and  en- 
tered the  Black  Lion  for  a  restorative,  only  one  further 
fact  was  germane  to  the  inquiry. 

Besides  Harry  Tompkinson  and  Tim  Shepstone,  the 
village  traders  who  had  observed  the  incident  in  the 
street,  Isaac  Broadleigh,  the  licensee  of  the  Black  Lion, 
was  called. 

He  added  to  his  evidence  an  opinion  that  proved  he 
had  observed  the  incident  in  the  street  more  closely 
than  his  fellows.  After  Broadleigh  had  given  a  state- 
ment similar,  in  its  general  outline,  to  that  offered  by 
the  two  foregoing  witnesses,  the  Coroner  asked  several 
supplementary  questions. 

"Tell  me,  Mr.  Broadleigh;  did  you  know  the  de- 
ceased?'* 

"No — he  was  never  in  the  hotel  before." 

"He  was  ill  when  he  came  in?" 

"Yes — he  appeared  to  be  ill." 

"Did  the  deceased  say  anything?" 

"He  muttered  something  about  not  being  well." 

"Did  he  say  anything  of  the  character  of  his  ill- 
ness ?" 

"No." 

"Did  you  form  an  opinion?" 

"In  the  face  of  Dr.  Waring's  evidence,  I  should  say 
he  had  some  form  of  heart  seizure.  I  had  the  feeling 
that  he  suffered  a  shock." 

"Why?" 

"A  man  passed  him  in  the  road.  I  was  watching 

80 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Mr.  Copeland  closely  at  the  time,  and  he  was  nearly 
opposite  my  house.  He  was  going  along  all  right  at 
the  moment  when  the  stranger  went  down  the  road  in 
the  opposite  direction." 

"What  happened  to  make  you  think  the  stranger 
influenced  him?" 

"The  matter  is  so  slight,"  Broadleigh  answered,  hesi- 
tating, "that  I  hardly  like  to  offer  my  surmise  as  seri- 
ous evidence.  What  really  happened,  as  it  seemed  to 
me,  was  that  Copeland  saw  this  man.  He  wheeled 
round,  apparently  agitated,  and  then  the  slight  seizure 
followed." 

"What  opinion  did  you  form  of  this  incident?" 

"That  the  seizure  followed  unusual  agitation." 

By  Superintendent  Waldron:  "What  sort  of  a  man 
was  he  who  went  down  the  street,  Mr.  Broadleigh?" 

"Tall,  stoutish,  heavily  built.  I  did  not  see  his  face. 
He  wore  a  jersey  and  white  duck  pants.  And  he  had 
only  one  arm,  I  believe.  He  looked  to  be  the  sort  of 
man  one  sees  begging  at  fairs  and  race  courses." 

"Had  you  ever  seen  him  before?" 

"No." 

"Have  you  ever  seen  him  since  ?" 

"No." 

Then  something  like  a  sensation  was  caused  at  an 
inquiry  which,  up  to  this  point,  had  gone  on  with  mo- 
notonous formality.  Vesta  Copeland  suddenly  rose 
and  asked  if  she  might  add  to  her  evidence. 

The  Coroner  blandly  assented  to  her  request. 

"I  only  wish  to  state  that  a  man  answering  to  Mr. 
Broadleigh's  description  of  this  stranger  accosted  me 
in  the  lane  leading  past  Wayside  Lodge,  early  in  the 

81 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


evening  of  the  murder,"  Vesta  said,  speaking  the  words 
rapidly. 

The  Superintendent  of  the  Police  stiffened  in  his 
manner  and  his  gaze  was  fixed  intently  on  the  girl's 
eager  face,  now  slightly  flushed.  The  attention  of  the 
court  was  concentrated  upon  the  new  turn  given  to 
the  evidence  and  every  eye  was  fixed  on  the  girl,  as  she 
answered  the  officer's  questions. 

"Did  he  speak  to  you?" 

"Yes,  he  asked  the  way  to  the  Lodge.  I  gathered 
he  wanted  the  turning  for  the  highway." 

"Did  you  see  him  again?" 

"Yes — an  hour  later,  as  I  returned." 

"Why  do  you  recall  this?" 

"I  was  naturally  startled  in  the  first  place  by  being 
addressed  in  the  darkness.  Then  I  had  the  impression 
that  the  manner  of  the  man's  address  was  much  su- 
perior to  his  personal  appearance.  Afterwards,  I 
thought  it  odd  to  see  him  a  second  time." 

"Did  you  note  anything  else  ?" 

"Yes — I  had  heard  some  one  whistling,  a  bar  or  two 
from  a  song,  a  few  minutes  before.  The  strange  man 
was  whistling  the  same  song  as  he  passed  me  the  last 
time  I  saw  him." 

Stanley  Waring  confirmed  this  evidence. 

So  the  inquest  on  Paul  Copeland  closed.  In  view  of 
the  request  for  an  adjournment,  the  inquiry  was  not 
completed.  The  police  were  left  to  go  on  with  the 
investigation,  and  the  Superintendent  concentrated  his 
search  for  the  murderer  on  discovering  all  the  crippled, 
begging  sailors  in  his  district.  At  the  end  of  the  week 
many  more  details  were  added  to  the  general  stock 

82 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


gathered  under  the  direction  of  Coroner  Liptrot,  but 
they  shed  no  further  light  on  the  motive  of  the  crime, 
the  mystery  of  the  red  cross,  or  the  personalities  of  the 
murdered  man  or  his  assailant.  Finally,  Mr.  Coroner 
Liptrot  summed  up,  after  a  heavy  lunch,  in  a  drowsy 
manner,  and  the  jury  returned  a  verdict  to  the  effect 
that  deceased  was  wilfully  murdered  by  some  person 
or  persons  unknown. 

Paul  Copeland  was  buried  in  the  village  churchyard. 
His  end  was  a  nine  days'  wonder  in  Missingham  and 
then  excitement  died  down,  though  the  crime  remained 
a  staple  subject  in  village  conversations  for  many 
months.  Gossip  agreed  that  the  inquest  only  deepened 
the  mystery.  When  public  interest  had  died  away,  one 
man  only  showed  an  increasing  preoccupation  with  the 
details  of  the  crime.  As  the  little  world  thought  less 
of  the  unsolved  crime,  Stanley  Waring  thought  more. 
The  instinct  of  the  hunter — an  instinct  heightened  by 
the  desire  of  his  professional  mind  to  root  out  morbid 
growths — impelled  him  to  take  up  the  loose  strings  only 
in  his  grasp,  and  to  see  whether,  in  tightening  them, 
he  could  not  enmesh  the  partners  in  Paul  Copeland's 
guilty  life,  who,  after  many  years,  had  turned  to  de- 
stroy him. 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE  days  following  the  murder  were  anxious  ones 
for  Stanley  Waring.  The  secret  gleaned  from 
the  papers  weighed  upon  him.  After  watching 
the  investigations  of  the  police,  he  did  not  doubt  that 
he  had  taken  the  wiser  course  by  maintaining  silence. 
As  he  read  the  situation,  the  bare  publication  of  the 
strange  story  would  merely  disperse  and  drive  to  cover 
the  dangerous  men  who  had  traced  Paul  Copeland  to 
Missingham.  On  the  other  hand,  silence  implied  that 
the  purpose  of  the  murder  remained  a  secret,  and  the 
probabilities  were  that  a  move  on  the  part  of  the  re- 
mainder of  the  Red  Four  would  be  made,  likely,  at  least, 
to  put  him  in  touch  with  the  personalities  of  the  gang. 

In  the  meantime,  Stanley  Waring  had  been  tracing 
the  movements  of  the  Red  Four,  as  directed  by  Paul 
Copeland,  in  the  press  of  1890,  and  had  found  most  of 
the  details  he  required  in  a  file  of  the  Times  for  that 
year. 

At  first,  inclined  to  depreciate  the  value  of  the  facts 
recorded  by  the  dead  man,  a  most  casual  examination 
of  the  press  for  1890  convinced  him  of  the  truth  of 
the  statement  now  so  strangely  in  his  possession, 
through  his  association  with  Copeland. 

There  was  no  doubt  the  Red  Four  had  existed  and 
that  members  of  the  partnership  were  still  at  large. 
The  year  1890  was  largely  concerned  with  their  ex- 
ploits in  America,  taking  New  York  as  their  center  of 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


crime.  And,  reading  the  record  of  their  depredations, 
Stanley  Waring  was  able  to  trace  the  meaning  of  the 
brief  entries  in  Copeland's  diary.  They  formed  vir- 
tually a  history  of  the  coups  and  failures  of  the  gang, 
during  the  year  1890,  in  America  alone.  Copeland 
had  put  down  an  initial  representing  the  name  of  the 
person  or  company  plundered;  the  larger  amount  rep- 
resented the  value  of  the  stolen  property  acquired  while 
the  smaller  amount  represented  a  third  share  of  the 
booty.  The  initials,  localities  and  amounts  of  plunder 
recorded  in  the  notebook  agreed  with  the  depredations 
as  recorded  in  the  press  of  that  year.  The  only  dis- 
crepancy was  Copeland's  reference  to  the  partnership 
as  the  Red  Four,  while  the  booty,  as  apparently  di- 
vided, according  to  the  diary,  was  split  into  thirds. 

There  did  emerge  the  general  facts  that  in  1890  this 
gang  of  men  represented  a  silently  working  force  en- 
gaged in  skillful  crime  on  a  large  scale  and  world-wide 
in  its  operation.  There  were  traces  of  the  movements 
of  the  Red  Four  in  Europe — London,  Paris,  Berlin 
and  Vienna — in  the  year  1889,  and  a  move  had  been 
made  on  New  York  in  1890,  where,  apparently  embol- 
dened by  success,  the  operations  had  begun  on  a  larger 
scale,  while  the  plan  of  campaign  adopted  in  each 
highly  organized  robbery  grew  more  ingeniously  com- 
plicated. The  total  amounts  acquired  by  the  gang, 
through  illegal  and  often  violent  methods,  must  have 
been  enormous.  A  clean  break  with  £20,000  of  specie 
abstracted  from  a  mail  train  was  followed  by  a  clever 
coup  that  enabled  the  Red  Four  to  clear  out  the  most 
valuable  part  of  the  stock  of  jewelry  in  possession  of 
the  eminent  firm  of  Grandways  of  New  York.  This 

85 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


booty  included  a  string  of  perfectly  matched  black 
pearls,  destined  for  an  Indian  noble,  said  to  be  valued 
at  £10,000  alone,  and  on  exhibition  in  New  York  be- 
fore going  on  its  journey  to  the  East. 

A  summary  of  the  crimes  showed  the  quartette  to 
have  been  concerned  in  dozens  of  burglaries  and  they 
were  reputed  to  be  in  possession  of  unnegotiable,  his- 
torical valuables — notably  the  jewels  of  one  of  the  Ger- 
man royal  houses ;  the  family  heirlooms  of  the  Duke  of 
Bedlington;  a  Rembrandt  valued  at  £15,000,  stolen 
from  the  French  Louvre,  and  a  magnificent  set  of 
rubies,  belonging  to  a  Turkish  potentate  who  "missed" 
them  during  an  official  visit  to  London. 

For  some  years  the  four  had  apparently  plundered 
the  Western  civilization  with  immunity  and  their 
progress  through  the  capitals  of  Europe  and  America 
was  not  only  indicated  by  the  extent  of  their  depreda- 
tions, but  by  a  series  of  ruthless  actions  involving  loss 
of  life.  One  of  the  worst  was  the  creation  of  a  panic 
in  a  New  York  opera  house,  when  the  distracted  society 
people  were  plundered  ruthlessly  of  their  jewels  during 
the  rush  for  the  doors — a  false  alarm  involving  a  loss 
of  more  than  twenty  lives.  An  isolated  crime  was  the 
merciless  shooting  of  two  policemen  in  London  in  the 
open  day,  while  the  first  appearance  of  the  Red  Cross 
was  the  occasion  when  it  was  found  slashed  on  the  fore- 
head of  a  detective,  one  Noel  Reid,  of  the  New  York 
Secret  Service.  His  body  was  found  brutally  knifed 
in  an  empty  warehouse. 

All  this  Stanley  Waring  read  in  the  quiet  library  at 
the  old  school-house,  but  the  later  phases  of  the  gang, 
outlined  in  many  apparently  unrelated  paragraphs, 

86 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


were  difficult  to  follow.  At  some  point,  late  in  the  year 
1890,  the  reign  of  terror  suddenly  ended.  Records  of 
crimes  ascribed  to  the  Red  Colonel  and  his  partners 
ceased  to  demand  attention  in  the  press.  The  matter 
became  involved  in  an  aftermath  of  more  or  less  in- 
spired journalistic  conjecture.  Students  of  crime  on 
the  editorial  press  of  New  York,  perhaps  inspired  by 
friends  in  the  secret  services,  generally  agreed  there  had 
been  a  violent  quarrel  and  the  Red  Four  had  apparently 
separated,  leaving  no  trace  of  their  partnership  be- 
hind them. 

That  was  the  position  so  far  as  Stanley  Waring 
knew  it,  and  no  fresh  light  was  shed  on  the  tragedy  by 
the  later  proceedings  at  the  adjourned  inquest. 

Stanley  Waring  had  not  moved  further  in  the  mat- 
ter and  indeed,  before  he  could  do  so,  was  faced  with 
a  grave  series  of  difficulties — difficulties  perhaps  taking 
an  exaggerated  importance  in  his  mind,  in  view  of  his 
relationship  with  Vesta  Copeland. 

The  first  question  was,  how  far  should  he  remain 
silent  and  keep  the  woman  he  loved  unaware  of  the  hor- 
ror lurking  in  the  background  of  her  life,  in  its  sinister 
aspects  more  dreadful  than  the  shock  of  Copeland's 
murder  ? 

Against  this  problem  he  set  his  own  desire — to  take 
up  the  threads  Copeland's  confession  had  unloosed,  in 
the  hope  of  bringing  the  rest  of  the  Red  Four  to  jus- 
tice. 

Arising  out  of  that,  he  had  to  consider,  and  did, 
how  far  he  could  go  in  his  inquiries  without  not  only 
forcing  a  knowledge  of  Paul  Copeland's  life  upon  his 
stepdaughter,  but  bringing  her  actually  into  the  dan- 

87 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


gerous   zone    of  ruthless  violence   surrounding   Cope- 
land's  end. 

Further,  he  had  to  consider  his  love  for  Vesta  and  the 
prospect  of  life  with  her  in  peaceful  channels,  against  a 
task  he  felt  would  imperil  the  safety  of  his  own  life. 

Success  in  the  mission  obviously  thrust  upon  him  by 
Fate  would  solve  all  these  difficulties ;  failure — Stanley 
Waring  could  only  guess  at  the  possibilities  waiting 
upon  Vesta  and  himself,  if  his  intervention  in  the  af- 
fairs of  the  Red  Four  should  be  accompanied  by  a 
weakness  of  action  on  his  part  or  a  moment's  indiscre- 
tion. 

Stanley  Waring  gave  long  hours  to  these  problems, 
but  Fate  plays  a  bigger  part  in  human  affairs  than 
most  people  admit.  Just  as  the  knowledge  of  Cope- 
land's  life  had  come  to  him  unsought,  so  his  decision 
in  the  matter  of  taking  a  hand  in  the  investigation  of 
the  mystery  of  Copeland's  death  was  decided  by  ex- 
ternal influence. 

Two  days  after  the  adjourned  inquest,  one  Friday  in 
the  middle  of  November,  the  Black  Lion  Hotel  had  an 
unexpected  visitor. 

A  very  fashionable  motor  car  drew  up  at  the  door 
about  the  hour  of  noon,  and  a  very  stately  man 
stepped  out  of  the  vehicle.  The  caller,  after  entering 
his  name  in  the  visitors'  book,  took  rooms  for  himself 
and  chauffeur  and  settled  down  to  interest  the  whole 
of  the  Missingham  High  Street  by  his  occasional  ap- 
pearances. 

The  visitor  gave  a  West  End  address,  and  an- 
nounced himself  by  a  name  that  had  percolated  even 
down  to  Missingham — Henry  Gaythorne. 

88 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


In  the  larger  social  life  of  London  Mr.  Gaythorne 
stood  for  much  more  than  was  dreamed  of  in  the 
Missingham  philosophy.  Indeed,  he  was  the  center  of 
a  rather  brilliant  social  circle.  Scarcely  a  day  passed 
without  some  reference  being  made  to  the  personality 
and  activities  of  Henry  Gaythorne  in  the  daily  and 
weekly  press.  The  public  were  tolerably  familiar  with 
his  features,  for  his  photograph  also  obtained  popular 
currency. 

Mr.  Gaythorne  was  that  most  desirable  of  all  social 
personalities — a  bachelor  of  obvious  wealth  and  of 
American  origin.  He  had  flashed  upon  London  three 
years  ago,  and  since  then  had  been  everywhere  and  done 
almost  everything.  He  had  a  quiet  roomy  house  in  a 
fashionable  thoroughfare,  well  known  for  its  hospitali- 
ties, grave  and  gay.  Two  exclusive  clubs  were  glad 
to  have  his  name  upon  their  list  of  members.  Addicted 
to  the  motor  habit,  he  still  found  time  to  run  a  fash- 
ionable coach,  driving  himself  in  the  season.  He  was 
equally  well  known  on  the  turf  and  raced  in  a  modest 
way.  Indeed,  at  the  moment  his  name  appears  in  this 
story,  his  candidate  for  the  Derby  was  fancied,  if  not 
strongly  supported.  Mr.  Gaythorne  dined  out  per- 
sistently; he  had  the  knack  of  making  attractively 
genial  after-dinner  speeches  with  queer  flashes  of  hu- 
mor, of  an  unexpected  character  with  a  distinct  appeal 
to  Americans ;  he  had  also  a  trick  of  being  a  compan- 
ionable squire  of  dames. 

In  a  subdued  manner,  he  posed  as  a  philanthropist 
and  was  believed  to  have  an  ambition  in  the  direction 
of  politics  for  the  better  expression  of  his  pronounced 
views  on  social  reform.  He  had  given  a  bed  to  a  can- 

89 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


cer  hospital ;  a  Christmas  tree  and  fete  to  crippled  chil- 
dren ;  and  a  supper  to  cabmen  of  the  older  type  to  as- 
suage their  loss  of  income  through  the  advance  of  the 
taxi-cab.  He  played  a  good  game  of  billiards  and 
bridge;  had  a  neat  gift  of  mimicry  for  use  at  Bo- 
hemian gatherings ;  was  a  member  of  a  club  devoted  to 
the  shooting  of  clay  pigeons  and  revolver  practice ;  and 
presented  a  very  neat  appearance  on  horseback  in  the 
Row.  When  he  posed  seriously  before  journalists  sent 
by  periodicals  of  the  graver  sort,  he  professed  to  be  a 
connoisseur  of  art,  a  collector  of  rare  jewels,  a  student 
of  character  and  an  observer  of  men.  Generally,  Gay- 
thorne  had  made  a  niche  for  himself  in  social  London, 
was  popular  and  had  been  described  by  such  opposites 
as  a  Bishop  and  a  fashionable  lightweight  pugilist  as 
a  real  good  fellow.  Though  about  fifty,  he  was  well- 
preserved,  and  there  were  hopeful  matrons  who  looked 
upon  his  conversion  from  bachelor  habits  as  a  neces- 
sary— and  possibly  profitable — duty. 

That  briefly  was  the  history  of  Henry  Gaythorne, 
when  he  descended  on  Missingham.  He  complained,  in 
a  casually  genial  manner,  that  he  needed  rest  and  quiet 
as  he  was  suffering  from  the  effects  of  a  slight  accident. 
He  expected  to  remain  in  Missingham  three  or  four 
days,  or  three  or  four  weeks.  So  much  depended  on 
his  temperament  and  the  suitability  of  the  place  to  his 
condition.  He  added,  as  an  afterthought,  that  he  had 
been  recommended  to  the  Black  Lion  by  Sir  Claude 
Crispington,  who  owned  a  tolerable  seat  a  mile  or  two 
outside  Missingham  and  never  used  it.  After  this  in- 
formation, dispersed  with  a  ready,  casual  air  of  con- 
descension and  geniality,  Gaythorne  lunched  in  the 

90 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


paneled  dining-room  and  ordered  his  motor  for  three 
o'clock. 

At  that  hour  the  fashionable  car,  post  office  red  in 
the  panels,  with  fawn  linings  to  the  upholstery,  was 
waiting  at  the  door  and  the  driver  was  stamping  his 
feet  and  blowing  on  his  fingers  as  he  waited  on  the  foot- 
path. 

Henry  Gaythorne,  heavily  clad  in  a  fur-lined  driving 
coat,  was  standing  on  the  steps  leading  to  the  hotel 
lounge,  accepting  local  directions  from  the  host  of  the 
Black  Lion. 

At  that  moment,  Stanley  Waring  and  Vesta  Cope- 
land  passed  down  the  village  street  on  the  same  side  of 
the  road. 

The  new  visitor  to  the  Black  Lion  was  speaking  to 
Isaac  Broadleigh,  as  the  two  passed  the  door  of  the 
hotel. 

"Thanks  so  much,"  Gaythorne  was  saying,  drawling 
the  words  in  an  opulent,  after-lunch  manner.  "I  shall 
be  sure  to  find  the  route  interesting." 

As  they  drew  away  from  the  hotel  Vesta  Copeland 
excitedly  clutched  Waring's  arm  as  if  to  steady  her- 
self under  the  influence  of  a  sudden  emotion.  Some- 
what startled  by  an  unusual  action,  Stanley  looked  at 
the  companion  walking  by  his  side.  He  found  definite 
signs  of  agitation  in  Vesta's  manner — a  subdued  excite- 
ment, expressed  by  the  eager  concentration  in  her  eyes, 
the  dilation  of  the  fine  nostrils  and  the  set  of  the  lips. 

"Why,  sweetheart,"  he  said,  in  gentle  raillery ;  "you 
look  as  if  you  had  seen  a  ghost." 

"Stanley,  look  closely  at  that  man  in  the  car,"  Vesta 
said,  and  the  intensity  of  emotion  betrayed  by  her  voice 

91 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


thrilled  him.  "I  have  heard  him  speak  before.  The 
man  who  stood  on  the  Black  Lion  steps  thanking  Mr. 
Broadleigh  was  the  man  who  thanked  me  for  directing 
him  to  the  highway  round  Wayside  Lodge  the  night  my 
father  was  murdered." 

"But  surely,"  Stanley  began,  "that  is  impossible. 
How  could  you  recognize  him?" 

"The  voice,  I  tell  you,"  Vesta  replied,  positively. 
"He  has  one  of  the  voices  women  cannot  forget." 


STANLEY  WARING,  not  wishing  to  excite  Vesta 
Copeland's    interest   in    the   mystery    of    Paul 
Copeland's  death  further  than  events  had  al- 
ready done  so,  deprecated  the  importance  attached  to 
the  similarity  she  had  detected  between  the  voice  heard 
on  the  night  of  the  murder  and  the  voice  of  the  man 
she  had  just  heard  speaking  in  front  of  the  Black  Lion 
Hotel. 

Tactfully,  and  with  considerable  tenderness,  he 
mildly  ridiculed  the  belief  Vesta  had  expressed,  and  put 
her  ready  association  of  the  two  voices  down  to  the 
effect  of  the  shock  on  the  girl's  nervous  system. 

They  had  walked  through  the  village  street  and  were 
getting  away  into  the  quietness  of  the  country  lanes 
before  Vesta  returned  to  the  subject,  but  her  words 
showed  how  closely  she  had  reasoned  out  the  incident, 
despite  the  attitude  of  her  lover.  Stanley,  watching 
her  face  and  noting  with  a  lover's  eagerness  the  sound 
of  a  familiar  voice,  knew  that  he  had  not  in  the  least 
influenced  Vesta's  judgment. 

"Will  you  think  it  strange  if  I  tell  you  something 
that  may  sound  rather  callous  ?"  Vesta  asked,  her  voice 
showing  how  earnest  she  was  in  finding  expression  for 
her  thoughts. 

"It  will  depend,"  Stanley  answered.  "It  will  depend 
on  how  shocking  your  confession  is." 

93 


THE   RED    COLONEL, 


"You  have  been  telling  me,  in  the  matter-of-fact  way 
of  the  doctor " 

"Without  a  practice,"  he  urged,  with  a  laugh. 

"Yes — without  a  practice,"  Vesta  admitted,  with  a 
grudging  smile,  that  showed  her  pride  in  him.  "With- 
out a  practice — but  not  without  a  professional  sense,  I 
think.  Well,  you  were  telling  me  about  my  nervous 
system,  and  the  shock  it  has  had  and  all  that.  I  take 
it  that  I  am  in  such  a  state  of  nerves,  I  must  not  trust 
my  own  judgment — is  that  not  so,  Doctor  Stanley?" 

"Well,  yes,"  he  admitted.  "I  think  this  tragedy 
weighs  heavily  on  your  mind,  as  it  does  on  mine,  and, 
constantly  thinking  about  it  makes  one  recognize  all 
sorts  of  odd  events  as  bearing  on  the  crime,  though 
they  have  no  actual  significance  whatever." 

Vesta  Copeland  laughed  and  the  notes  tinkled  with 
the  hearty  vibration  of  robust  health. 

"In  other  words,  I  am  mad,"  she  urged,  persistently. 
"I  have  the  madness  of  obsession." 

Stanley  Waring  hastened,  by  many  gentle  devices,  to 
disassociate  himself  with  Vesta's  extreme  and  drastic 
reading  of  his  diagnosis. 

"Well,  but  consider,  Stanley,"  the  girl  went  on,  ear- 
nestly, "I  am  just  as  sane  as  you  are.  I  am  going  to 
confess  something.  I  was  shocked — bitterly  shocked — 
by  the  incidents  of  that  dreadful  night  and  morning.  I 
admit  for  two  or  three  days  my  nerves  were  unstrung. 
But,  strange  as  it  may  sound,  perhaps,  I  had  not  the 
quality  of  affection  for  my  father  to  establish  the  pro- 
found emotion  that  leaves  a  permanent  impression  on 
the  mind  suffering  a  sense  of  loss.  I  was  shocked  only 
in  the  sense  that  some  one  nearly  a  stranger — yourself, 

94 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


for  instance — might  be  on  suddenly  coming  into  con- 
tact with  such  a  horror." 

"Why  do  you  say  this?"  Stanley  asked,  his  eyes 
fixed  intently  on  the  girl's  earnest  face. 

"I  am  not  quite  sure,"  Vesta  replied,  seriously ;  "but 
I  think,  most  of  all,  to  prove  to  you  I  am  sane.  My 
father  came  late  into  my  life.  We  were  almost  strang- 
ers. He  was  not  a  man  who  sought  affection  or  com- 
manded it.  He  told  me  nothing  of  my  past  nor  of  his 
own.  I  looked  to  him  as  a  natural  guardian,  and  his 
attitude  was  much  the  same  to  me.  And,  besides,  I 
think  he  liked  to  have  me  with  him.  But  of  affection, 
of  the  kind  that  tends  to  great  emotional  distress,  I 
had  none.  I  think  I  say  this  to  prove  the  shock  I  had 
to  suffer  produced  only  the  result  that  comes  of  a 
sudden,  chilling  fright.  The  reaction  is  so  obvious  to 
me  that  the  night  of  horror  now  seems  a  long  way  off 
— only  a  disturbing  memory." 

"Where  does  all  this  lead  ?"  Stanley  asked,  curiously. 

"Only  this  far,"  Vesta  persisted.  "When  I  left  the 
house  with  you  to-day  I  was  feeling  quite  happy.  I 
was  pleased,  most  of  all,  to  be  out  in  the  fine  air,  walk- 
ing with  you." 

Vesta  pressed  his  arm  as  she  spoke. 

"Honestly,  I  had  not  thought  of  the  tragedy  or  any 
of  its  details  for  perhaps  hours." 

Stanley  Waring's  eyes  showed  that  he  had  made  a 
quick  analysis  of  the  meaning  of  Vesta's  words  and 
saw  their  drift. 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  Wayside  Lodge,  or  of  my 
father,  or  any  of  the  unpleasant  incidents  of  the 
last  few  days.  The  world  was  just  you  and  I, 

95 


THE   RED   COLONEL, 


and  I  was  thinking  how  jolly  it  was  for  both  of  us  to 
be  in  it." 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  Stanley  Waring  did  not 
break  the  silence.  He  knew  exactly  what  Vesta  Cope- 
land  was  going  to  say. 

"I  had  not  a  care  in  my  mind,  not  a  disquieting 
thought,  until  I  heard  that  man's  voice,"  she  persisted. 

"I  quite  see,"  Waring  replied.  "You  are  fixed  in 
your  belief — you  are  sure  of  the  association  of  the 
two  voices." 

"Yes,"  Vesta  said.  "I  want  you  to  understand  that. 
There  are  some  things  one  believes  without  having  any- 
thing to  prove  the  belief — without  evidence,  as  you 
would  put  it,  in  the  grim,  scientific  way." 

"A  sort  of  instinctive  jump  at  a  conclusion — eh?" 
laughed  Stanley. 

"Call  it  whatever  you  like,"  Vesta  said,  with  growing 
seriousness.  "My  mind  is  as  clear  as  ever  it  was.  I 
feel  as  quietly  happy  now  as  ever  I  did.  But  I  know 
beyond  a  possibility  of  error  the  man  who  spoke  before 
entering  the  car  was  in  the  lane  leading  to  Wayside 
Lodge  on  the  night  of  the  murder." 

"Why  do  you  say  this?"  Stanley  asked,  at  last. 
Vesta's  manner  was  so  convincing  he  did  not  now  seek 
to  shake  her  belief. 

"Because  I  want  you  to  find  out  who  that  man  is," 
she  answered,  with  quiet  conviction. 

They  continued  their  walk,  returning  to  the  subject 
once  or  twice,  but  carrying  the  matter  no  further,  for 
Stanley  would  not  outline  any  of  the  knowledge  he  pos- 
sessed— knowledge,  at  least,  making  Vesta's  fixed  belief 
fit  the  possibilities  of  the  situation. 

96 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


The  light  was  failing  as  they  reached  Missingham 
again  and  walked  through  the  village  in  the  direction 
of  the  Waring  residence. 

They  had  finished  dinner  in  the  quiet  apartment  of 
the  schoolhouse.  Dr.  Waring  had  left  for  his  study. 
Mrs.  Waring  and  Vesta  had  gone  to  the  drawing-room. 
Stanley  lingered  at  the  table  alone,  balancing  a  silver 
spoon  on  the  edge  of  the  coffee  cup.  His  face  was 
grim  and  purposeful — in  his  expression  there  was  some- 
thing of  the  student's  concentration  and  something  of 
the  hunter's  implacable  eagerness  or  zest,  strangely 
combined.  He  was  reviewing  the  odd  interruption  to 
the  routine  of  a  quiet  day. 

"I  must  go  to  town  to-morrow,"  he  was  saying  to 
himself.  "I  must  know  all  Paul  Copeland's  solicitor  is 
prepared  to  tell  me." 

There  was  no  apparent  connection  between  his  con- 
clusion and  his  thoughts.  He  had  been  puzzling  over 
the  old  tangle,  whether  he  should  take  up  the  loose 
threads  of  the  mystery  and  walk  deliberately  into  the 
orbit  of  the  Red  Four  or  remain  silent  in  the  interest 
of  Vesta's  peace  of  mind  and  physical  safety. 

His  keen,  analytical  mind  reasoned  closely.  Since 
the  tragedy,  instinctively  the  hunter  in  Waring  had 
bidden  him  to  be  silent,  waiting  for  the  game  to  make 
the  next  move.  He  knew  that,  whoever  the  Red  Colonel 
might  be,  one  part  of  the  purpose  of  his  visit  to  Way- 
side Lodge  had  been  frustrated.  He  guessed  the  noise 
of  the  crime  and  its  careless,  unimaginative  investiga- 
tion by  the  police  would  drive  him  to  earth.  He  felt 
certain  when  Missingham  was  quiet  again,  about  its 
ordinary  placid  routine,  unsuspicious  and  very  unob- 

97 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


servant,  the  Red  Colonel  would  return.  He  had  re- 
mained inactive,  but  half  unconsciously  he  had  been 
waiting  for  the  game  to  creep  once  more  into  the 
open. 

Stanley  Waring  had  been  undecided  in  one  matter — 
how  far  should  he  drag  an  old  scandal  into  the  light  of 
day  and  leave  the  influence  to  wrap  itself,  a  malign 
shadow,  round  Vesta  Copeland's  innocent  personality. 
Every  instinct  of  prudence  bade  him  to  remain  silent, 
inactive;  but  the  instinct  of  the  hunter,  the  inborn 
love  for  adventure  with  us  all,  though  it  may  be  dor- 
mant through  a  lifetime,  was  at  war  with  the  dictates 
of  his  own  reason.  And  that  afternoon  he  believed, 
though  he  had  deprecated  Vesta  Copeland's  associa- 
tion of  the  two  voices,  the  Red  Colonel  had  made  a 
first  sign  of  his  presence,  had  returned  to  the  scene 
of  his  crime,  had  crept  from  his  lair  into  the  open. 
Vesta  herself,  unaware  of  the  facts,  believed  this.  Her 
very  words  had  been  the  voice  of  Fate.  "I  want  you 
to  find  out  who  that  man  is." 

Unconsciously,  Vesta  Copeland  had  pointed  to  the 
way  the  strongest  impulse  in  his  mental  equipment 
bade  Waring  to  tread. 

When  he  reviewed  the  facts  in  the  light  of  the  occur- 
rence of  the  day,  he  knew  the  decision  was  out  of  his 
own  keeping.  If  he  would  not  carry  the  war  to  the 
Red  Colonel,  then  the  criminal  would  carry  the  battle 
to  him.  The  mystery  that  groups  actors  in  the 
drama  of  life  had  taken  Stanley  Waring  up  and  woven 
his  personality  into  the  fabric  of  crime  inspired  by 
the  associates  of  Paul  Copeland.  The  decision  Waring 
made  to  visit  town  and  carry  on  the  first  obvious  inves- 

98 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


tigations  into  Paul  Copeland's  private  affairs  was  a 
conclusion  destined  to  reach  out  much  further.  It  in- 
volved the  passing  of  Stanley  Waring  from  the  peace- 
ful routine  of  village  life  into  the  unknown,  troubled 
circles  of  the  world  touched  by  the  sinister  movements 
of  the  Red  Four. 

Stanley  Waring  rose  from  the  table,  finished  his 
coffee  slowly,  as  he  stood  up  and  blew  a  cloud  of  cigar- 
ette smoke  into  the  still  air  of  the  quiet  room. 

"Well — be  it  so,"  he  said,  bracing  himself.  "To- 
morrow we  start  after  the  Red  Colonel." 

As  he  muttered  the  words  the  telephone  bell  rang 
shrilly  in  the  hall. 

The  maid  who  answered  came  toward  him. 

"Mr.  Broadleigh  of  the  Black  Lion  wants  to  speak 
to  you,  sir,"  the  girl  said. 

Stanley  Waring  smiled  grimly  as  he  took  up  the 
receiver. 

"Is  that  Mr.  Stanley  Waring— Dr.  Stanley  War- 
ing?" Broadleigh's  voice  asked. 

"Yes." 

"I'm  Broadleigh  of  the  Black  Lion.  Could  you  do 
me  a  favor,  sir?" 

"Yes — if  it  be  in  my  power,"  Stanley  answered. 
"What  is  it?" 

"I've  a  Mr.  Gaythorne  staying  here,"  Broadleigh's 
voice  explained  through  the  wire.  "He  is  a  man  of 
some  social  importance,  and  I  would  like  to  oblige 
him." 

"Yes?" 

"Well — he's  suffering  from  the  effects  of  a  slight 
accident  and  wants  to  see  a  doctor." 

99 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


Stanley's  square,  lean  jaw  stiffened  as  he  paused 
before  replying. 

"Well— there's  Dr.  Lethbury,"  he  pointed  out.  "He 
is  in  practice  here  and  is  the  recognized  man." 

"Yes — I  know,"  Broadleigh  answered.  "I've  already 
suggested  him.  Mr.  Gaythorne  seems  particular.  He 
does  not  trust  country  practitioners — they  get  rusty, 
he  says.  He  wants  a  younger  man — in  fact,  you." 

"Why  me?"  asked  Stanley  Waring. 

"Well — he  partly  suggested  you,"  Broadleigh  ex- 
plained. 

"But  he  could  not  know  of  me,"  Stanley  suggested, 
his  ears  intent  on  the  answer. 

Isaac  Broadleigh's  reply  was  not  quite  clear. 

"Well — perhaps  I  named  you  as  being  the  only  al- 
ternative," he  admitted.  "I'm  not  quite  sure  now — 
oh,  yes!  Mr.  Gaythorne  had  seen  your  name  in  a 
report  of  the  murder  inquest — that  was  it." 

"I  see,"  Stanley  answered,  slowly.  "Does  this  man 
Gaythorne  want  to  see  me  to-night?" 

"Yes — as  soon  as  you  can  get  here." 

"Very  good.  I'll  be  over  at  the  Black  Lion  within 
the  hour,"  Stanley  said,  decisively,  and  hung  up  the 
receiver. 

"That  settles  the  matter,"  Stanley  Waring  mused, 
as  he  idled  about  the  hall  before  rejoining  his  mother 
and  Vesta.  "The  Red  Colonel  has  sent  for  me.  He 
wants  to  know  how  much  I  learned — what  knowledge 
I  conceal.  In  this  matter  of  going  after  the  Red 
Colonel,  Fate  leaves  me  no  choice.  If  I  do  not  trail 
him,  it  is  evident  he  will  trail  me.  The  Red  Colonel 
is  a  bold  enemy.  He  shows  his  hand  at  once." 

100 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


So  musing,  Waring  rejoined  the  ladies  and  re- 
mained for  the  best  part  of  an  hour,  talking  with 
unruffled  calm,  though  his  mind  was  a  prey  to  an  in- 
creasing curiosity.  About  the  hour  of  nine  he  quietly 
left  the  room  to  meet,  as  he  believed,  the  murderer 
of  Paul  Copeland  face  to  face.  He  did  not  doubt 
even  for  a  moment  that  the  man  Gaythorne  he  was 
going  to  see  would  be  the  man  whose  voice  had  excited 
Vesta  Copeland's  attention  in  the  village  street. 


CHAPTER    XI 

THE  Black  Lion  never  housed  more  than  twenty 
guests  under  its  roof  for  the  night,  even  in 
the  height  of  summer,  when  Missingham  drew 
many  visitors  from  town  to  idle  about  the  green 
countryside. 

The  evening  Stanley  Waring  set  out  to  meet  Mr. 
Gaythorne  that  gentleman  and  his  servant  were  the 
only  visitors  staying  over  night  in  the  hotel. 

On  entering  the  hotel,  Stanley  Waring  came  across 
Isaac  Broadleigh  lounging  about  the  hall,  and  the 
host  of  the  Black  Lion,  without  any  preamble,  took 
Waring  forward  into  an  old-fashioned  apartment,  half 
lounge  and  smoke  room,  reserved  for  visitors  staying 
in  the  house. 

"This  is  Dr.  Waring,"  Isaac  Broadleigh  said  to  the 
solitary  occupant,  and  at  once  left  Waring  alone  with 
the  man  who  had  summoned  him — the  man  Waring  had 
seen  leaving  the  Black  Lion  in  the  afternoon. 

The  visitor  had  been  lounging  in  front  of  a  large 
open  fireplace  where  a  log  fire  burned  in  the  Jacobean 
grate.  He  turned  in  his  seat,  with  slow  indifference, 
carefully  studied,  Waring  thought,  and  seemed  to  be 
trying  to  recollect  the  name  and  the  purpose  of  the 
caller. 

Then  Gaythorne  suddenly  arose,  with  the  manner 
of  a  man  recalling  a  matter  of  but  little  importance. 

"Oh!  yes,  of  course,"  Henry  Gaythorne  said.  "Dr. 
102 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


Waring — the  young  doctor.  It  is  very  good  of  you  to 
come;  I'm  almost  ashamed  of  dragging  you  out  into 
the  wintry  darkness." 

"Pray  do  not  mention  it,"  Stanley  answered,  with 
well-simulated  unconcern.  "Mr.  Gaythorne,  I  be- 
lieve." 

Stanley  felt  that,  though  the  stranger  greeted  him 
easily  and  with  but  a  slight  display  of  interest,  he  was 
being  subjected  to  a  close,  unsparing  scrutiny,  but 
he  betrayed  no  signs  of  consciousness  of  this.  Indeed, 
during  the  conventional  preliminaries  he  found  him- 
self, in  his  turn,  examining  the  man  who  had  called 
him  into  consultation  and  submitting  Gaythorne's  per- 
sonal appearance  to  a  close  analysis. 

Waring  found  himself  sitting  in  a  low  lounge  chair, 
on  one  side  of  the  open  fireplace,  opposite  to  Gay- 
thorne, who  reseated  himself  in  the  deep  easy  chair 
from  which  he  had  risen. 

Waring  noticed,  too,  that  the  chair  Gaythorne  had 
offered  placed  him  in  the  light  streaming  from  a  big 
hanging  lamp  in  the  center  of  the  room,  while  Gay- 
thorne, by  leaning  back  in  the  hooded  chair,  could 
easily  throw  his  face  into  the  deepest  shadow. 

The  man  opposite  to  Waring  was  obviously  of  the 
cosmopolitan  city  type,  of  the  type  one  finds  lounging 
in  the  hotels  of  every  country.  He  was  neatly  dressed 
and  perfectly  groomed  in  fashionable  evening  clothes. 
From  the  crown  of  the  head  to  the  soles  of  his  highly 
polished  slippers,  the  temporary  guest  at  the  Black 
Lion  was  a  man  from  the  larger  world. 

Two  facts  had  astonished  Waring  as  they  exchanged 
greetings,  standing  up  in  the  quiet  smoke  room. 

103 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Though  dressed  in  the  suave  habit  of  the  evening, 
obviously  polished  and  well  groomed,  his  very  appear- 
ance implying  an  easy  life  in  pleasant  places,  under- 
neath the  sleek,  well-tailored  clothes  Gaythorne  wore 
was  a  man  of  enormous  physical  activity  and  strength. 
Ordinary  observers  would  have  set  Gaythorne  down 
as  a  man  slightly  above  the  average  height,  and  would 
have  accounted  for  a  certain  heaviness  of  physique 
by  describing  it  as  mere  bulkiness  arising  from  easy 
living.  Waring,  trained  to  use  his  eyes,  realized  the 
seeming  bulk  was  really  a  physique  abnormally  devel- 
oped, the  lines  of  an  exceptionally  powerful  frame 
being  softened  and  rounded  by  the  fashionable  clothes 
worn  by  the  man  and  concealed  by  his  lazy,  almost 
languid  manner  of  moving.  Though  Gaythorne  had 
walked  forward  to  meet  Waring  as  though  physical 
effort  were  an  intolerable  fag,  the  latter  knew  at  a 
glance  that  the  man's  very  movements  were  counter- 
feit. Despite  his  size,  Waring  was  sure  Gaythorne 
could  move  with  the  swift  certainty  of  a  boxer  trained 
to  the  hour  and  eager  to  leap  forward  and  take  advan- 
tage of  the  moment  an  opponent  left  his  body  un- 
guarded. His  capacity  for  movement  was  only  im- 
peded by  the  fact  that  Gaythorne's  left  hand  was  ban- 
daged and  slung  in  a  neat  arm  rest  suspended  from  his 
neck. 

All  this  Waring  noted,  and  more.  Within  the  lim- 
ited opportunity  the  meeting  gave  of  realizing  as  much 
of  Gaythorne's  life  as  his  externals  revealed,  Waring 
saw  many  significant  characteristics  in  a  series  of 
quick  flashes  of  observation. 

Gaythorne  had  offered  his  hand  as  Waring  entered, 
104 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


and  the  latter  had  taken  it.  Suave,  friendly,  non- 
chalant, the  grip  of  Gaythorne's  hand  was  a  revelation 
of  power  suppressed  and  almost  hidden.  One  thought 
of  velvet  and  iron  at  the  same  time. 

Now  they  were  sitting  opposite  to  each  other  and 
a  waiter  had  brought  in  a  tray  with  whiskey,  tum- 
blers and  an  open  bottle  of  mineral  water  upon  it. 

Leaning  back,  Waring  watched  Gaythorne  as  he 
played  the  host,  a  stream  of  cultured  small  talk  bub- 
bling from  his  lips. 

Most  of  all,  Stanley  was  impressed  by  the  face.  The 
head  on  the  square  shoulders  was  a  big  one.  The 
lower  part  of  the  face  seemed  heavier  than  the  brain 
regions.  The  base  of  the  skull  was,  in  its  turn,  bigger 
and  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  low  frontal  develop- 
ment. Short  dark  hair,  turning  to  an  iron  gray,  was 
brushed  back  from  the  forehead.  The  top  of  the  fore- 
head, where  his  short  hair  with  the  backward  curve 
joined  the  head,  took  a  shape  and  appearance  that  re- 
minded the  observer  of  the  set  of  the  short  furry  plum- 
age on  the  hoad  of  a  predatory  bird. 

The  same  suggestion  remained  as  Waring  surveyed 
the  face.  The  whole  tendency  of  its  form  conveyed  an 
impression  of  nature  at  work  modeling  for  shapes  ex- 
pressing smoothness,  speed  and  swiftly  used  power. 
The  eyes  were  round  and  dark.  Their  pupils  had  a 
solid,  sharply  glazed  quality  and  a  birdlike  bright- 
ness. The  eyes  as  a  whole  moved  restlessly,  as  do 
the  eyes  of  birds.  The  slow  adjustment  of  the  aver- 
age eye  to  an  object  is  carried  on  with  a  swift  flash- 
ing glance  from  point  to  point.  Gaythorne's  eyes  did 
more  than  flash — they  flickered.  The  eyeballs  were 

105 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


pressed  low  down  into  the  bottom  lids  and  gave  a  full, 
round  appearance  to  the  shape  of  the  sockets. 

Gaythorne's  face  was  full  and  fleshly.  The  skin  was 
pale  and  smooth.  The  forehead  and  cheeks  presented 
a  surface  like  yellowing  ivory,  save  where  the  skin  red- 
dened on  the  high  cheek  bones.  The  nose  was  bold  but 
finely  modeled,  with  thin,  sensitive  nostrils  and  a  high, 
prominent  bridge.  The  top  lip  was  hidden  by  a  dark, 
crisp  mustache  of  a  texture  resembling  the  bristles  of 
a  toothbrush.  The  ends  spread  rather  than  pointed 
and  were  trained  upward.  The  mouth,  big  and  ill- 
formed,  was  the  coarsest  feature  of  the  face  and  re- 
mained slightly  open  even  in  repose.  The  lower  lip 
protruded  and  hung  a  little.  It  had  the  curl  one  sees 
on  the  snarling  under  lip  of  a  bulldog.  The  teeth 
were  big,  white,  highly  polished,  and  gleamed  with  a 
hint  of  cruelty.  Even  the  mustaches  veiling  so  much 
of  the  lips  and  the  sleek  suavity  of  the  shining  face, 
backed  by  a  soft,  smooth  manner  and  a  ready  smile, 
could  not  dispel  the  warning  given  to  the  observer  by 
the  cruel,  snarling  lower  lip  and  the  big  white  teeth 
gleaming  in  the  slightly  open  mouth. 

For  the  rest,  Henry  Gaythorne  was  a  man  whose 
appearance  did  not  divulge  his  age.  He  must  have 
been  fifty  or  even  five  years  more,  but  he  could  exert, 
at  will,  a  superficial  charm  of  manner  that  left  most 
who  met  him  casually  in  the  social  life  of  the  town 
doubtful  as  to  what  his  exact  age  might  be. 

Detection  of  crime  involves  the  patient  acquisition 
of  proof,  but,  before  the  analytical  mind  establishes 
proofs,  intuition  often  spurs  the  imagination. 

Waring  knew,  as  soon  as  he  had  been  with  Gay- 
106 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


thorne  two  minutes,  that  here  was  no  ordinary  man. 
He  knew  that  out  of  the  whole  world  of  men  this 
one  man  had  come  voluntarily  to  see  him.  He  knew 
life  would  become  a  running  fight  between  them.  All 
his  intuition  impelled  Waring  to  mask  his  thoughts,  to 
betray  no  consciousness  of  the  significance  of  the 
other's  presence;  to  admit  no  show  of  interest  in  his 
manner,  other  than  the  most  casual  professional  con- 
cern about  the  man  who  desired  to  consult  him. 

They  had  talked  pleasant  social  commonplaces  in 
those  early  minutes.  Gaythorne,  spread  out  in  an 
easy  chair,  gossiped  unconcernedly  of  the  reasons 
bringing  him  to  Missingham. 

"Six  months  in  London  on  end  and  without  change 
fag  a  man  to  death,"  he  was  saying.  "I  have  been 
going  everywhere  and  doing  everything,  and  I've  the 
feeling  a  perfectly  fit  man  gets  when  he  trains  himself 
stale.  My  idea  was  I'd  just  have  a  quiet  week  or 
ten  days  here,  out  of  the  hubbub — an  idea  with  which 
my  doctor  agreed." 

Waring  listened  politely  and  made  some  sympa- 
thetic rejoinder. 

"I've  taken  the  misfortune  of  a  little  accident  as 
an  excuse,"  Gaythorne  continued,  speaking  carelessly, 
though  his  glance  was  constantly  hovering  over  War- 
ing's  impassive  features.  "My  doctor  advises  that  it 
is  now  only  a  matter  of  dressing,  which  my  man  can 
do,  but  suggests  I  should  get  a  qualified  man  to  keep 
an  eye  on  the  wound.  Just  as  a  precaution  against  it 
going  the  wrong  way,"  he  added. 

Waring  silently  nodded  his  assent. 

"That  is  why  I  have  called  you,"  Gaythorne  said, 
107 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


slowly.  "I  thought  you  might  just  run  your  experi- 
enced eye  over  it.  You'll  see  at  a  glance  whether  the 
wound  is  going  on  all  right  or  not." 

"Perhaps  you  would  like  me  to  examine  it  now?" 
suggested  Waring. 

"Yes."  The  other  rose  as  he  spoke  and  slipped  off 
his  coat. 

Though  Waring  was  consumed  with  eagerness  to  see 
that  wound,  his  manner  did  not  alter  as  he  deftly  cut 
the  stitches  and  unwrapped  the  bandage.  The  arm 
held  out  steadily  before  Waring  confirmed  his  first 
belief  in  Gaythorne's  exceptional  physical  power.  The 
forepart  was  heavy  with  muscle,  yet  seemed  lean  with 
the  sinewy  grace  of  the  higher  class  of  athlete. 

The  bandage  ran  almost  from  the  tips  of  the  fingers 
to  the  elbow.  Slowly  unwrapping  the  lint,  Waring 
knew  the  man  standing  above  him  as  he  bent  to  the 
task  was  watching  with  an  acuteness  prompted  by 
definite  purpose. 

The  bandage,  as  it  was  slowly  unwound,  revealed  a 
long  jagged,  superficial  scar,  sufficiently  deep  to  be 
painful,  but  in  no  way  a  serious  injury.  It  had  been 
properly  treated  and  was  perfectly  healthy. 

"Now  what  should  you  say  caused  that?"  Gaythorne 
asked,  mildly. 

"A  bullet,"  answered  Waring,  carelessly. 

He  felt  the  arm  stiffen  ever  so  slightly  under  his 
touch. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  Gaythorne  asked,  as  if 
mildly  curious. 

"Well — it  is  obviously  a  bullet  wound,"  Waring 
replied.  "I  cannot  imagine  such  a  wound  being 

108 


THE   RED   COLONEL, 


caused  by  any  other  means.  But  it  is  perfectly 
healthy." 

Waring  was  still  loosening  the  bandages  as  he  spoke. 

"You  are  satisfied  about  that?"  Gaythorne  asked. 

"Yes,"  Waring  replied,  looking  up  to  catch  the  rest- 
less eyes  fixed  intently  on  him. 

He  turned  to  remove  more  of  the  bandage. 

"You  need  not  go  further  then,"  Gaythorne  sug- 
gested. "The  wound  is  very  slight  from  the  wrist. 
My  man  will  dress  it  completely  last  thing  to-night. 
Just  replace  the  bandages." 

"As  you  please,"  he  said,  looking  up  again.  Intui- 
tion told  him  the  man  whose  gaze  was  bent  on  himself 
had  stopped  the  baring  of  the  wound  to  test  Waring's 
curiosity.  The  slight  change  in  his  voice  suggested 
some  disappointment.  He  seemed  to  expect  Waring  to 
be  more  curious. 

"On  second  thoughts,  you  had  better  examine  the 
whole  limb,"  Gaythorne  added. 

"I  think  your  doctor  would  prefer  me  to  do  so," 
Stanley  Waring  agreed. 

Without  any  further  remark  he  went  on  removing 
the  bandages  until  the  whole  arm  was  bare. 

The  wound  on  the  hand,  part  of  the  same  long 
scar,  evidently  the  path  of  a  glancing  bullet,  was  but 
slight.  It  began  at  the  knuckle  of  the  third  finger. 

"Quite  all  right,"  Waring  said,  looking  up  again. 
"The  wound  is  as  well  as  it  can  be  and  is  healing 
splendidly.  Shall  I  bind  it  up?" 

"Yes,"  Gaythorne  suggested,  and  Waring's  smooth 
manner  seemed  to  have  placed  him  more  at  his  ease. 

There  was  no  trace  of  disappointment,  undue  in- 

109 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


terest,  excitement  or  emotion  in  Waring's  manner,  but 
as  he  had  taken  off  the  dressing  a  certainty  growing 
in  his  mind  had  been  rudely  proved  to  have  no  founda- 
tion. He  had  expected  to  find  a  clawlike  hand  with 
but  three  fingers  beneath  the  swathing  of  the  bandage. 
The  hand  he  found  was  clawlike  and  of  ivory  white- 
ness, but  it  had  four  fingers.  He  knew,  too,  that  Gay- 
thorne  had  asked  him  to  see  the  wound,  to  test  how 
far  he  was  interested  in  the  appearance  of  a  man  in 
Missingham  with  a  bullet  wound  on  his  arm,  and  had 
desired  as  well  to  know  whether  Waring  would  asso- 
ciate a  bullet  wound  at  once  with  a  three-fingered  hand 
and  betray  himself  by  the  eagerness  of  his  manner. 

Deftly,  Waring  redressed  the  hand.  As  he  did  so 
he  remarked  with  polite  interest  on  the  nature  of  the 
wound. 

"How  did  you  come  by  it?"  he  asked. 

"Ah !  I  practice  a  lot  with  the  revolver  at  the  Prin- 
ces Club,"  Gaythorne  replied.  "I  had  a  little  accident 
through  trifling  with  a  friend.  His  gun  went  off,  and, 
if  I  hadn't  had  the  luck  of  the  devil,  I  should  have 
been  killed  instead  of  scarred.  It  was  a  close  call." 

With  the  same  non-committal  manner,  Waring 
bound  up  the  wound  and  carried  on  a  conversation 
now  reverting  to  general  topics. 

Even  as  he  talked,  his  eager  mind  was  at  work  grop- 
ing for  an  answer  to  his  doubts.  Waring  was  trying 
to  reconcile  the  four-fingered  left  hand  of  the  Red 
Colonel  with  the  print  of  the  murderer's  hand  upon 
the  blood-stained  banknote,  with  its  missing  little  fin- 
ger. Though  his  manner  did  not  change,  he  was  com- 
pelled to  acknowledge  a  profound  sense  of  disappoint- 

110 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


ment.  The  fabric  he  had  built  up  on  Vesta's  recog- 
nition of  the  voice  and  his  own  hasty  assumption  that 
the  coincidence  of  the  recognition  with  the  appearance 
in  Missingham  of  a  man  with  a  bullet  wound,  who  de- 
sired to  see  him,  must  imply  the  appearance  of  the 
Red  Colonel  had  toppled  to  the  ground.  And  yet 
Waring  was  sure  his  meeting  with  Gaythorne  was  not 
the  mere  accident  that  brings  together  a  doctor  and 
a  wealthy  traveling  patient  who  has  been  slightly 
wounded. 


CHAPTER    XII 

PUZZLED  as  Waring  was  by  the  result  of  his 
examination,    the   intuitive   reasoning   bringing 
him  to  believe  he  was  in  the  presence  of  the  Red 
Colonel    received    some    confirmation    before    his    visit 
ended. 

While  grudgingly  admitting  a  salient  peculiarity  of 
the  man  he  had  expected  to  see  was  missing,  Waring 
clung  to  his  first  fixed  impression — Gaythorne  had  sent 
for  him  for  purposes  lying  outside  the  question  of  the 
wound.  Putting  Vesta's  recognition  side  by  side  with 
the  fact  that  Gaythorne's  arm  was  marked  by  a  bullet 
wound  established  two  significant  points,  and  there 
was  a  possibility  of  error  in  the  breakdown  of  the  one 
important  clew  revealed  at  the  inquest — the  print  of  a 
three-fingered  left  hand. 

The  main  point  uppermost  in  Waring*  s  mind  was — • 
Gaythorne  had  wanted  to  see  him.  He  had  used  the 
slight  wound,  now  well  on  the  way  to  healing,  as  a  pre- 
text. There  was  no  particular  reason  why  a  strange 
doctor  should  be  necessary;  recovery  was  only  a  mat- 
ter of  time  and  careful  dressing.  Even  though  Gay- 
thorne happened  to  be  a  highly  nervous  patient,  he 
would  have  been  content  with  the  first  doctor  recom- 
mended by  Isaac  Broadleigh,  for  no  one  with  the  rudi- 
ments of  medical  skill  could  go  wrong  with  the  task  of 
passing  an  opinion  on  the  progress  of  such  a  simple 
wound.  In  his  own  mind,  Stanley  'Waring  still  believed 

112 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Gaythorne  had  done  what  Waring  imagined  the  Red 
Colonel  as  likely  to  do — used  the  best  available  logical 
pretext  for  bringing  about  an  interview. 

He  had  finished  binding  up  the  arm.  Gaythorne  re- 
sumed his  coat  and  carelessly  placed  the  injured  mem- 
ber into  the  sling  hung  from  his  neck. 

"I  think  you  may  rest  easy  in  your  mind,"  Waring 
said,  casually,  as  he  stood  prepared  to  take  his  depar- 
ture. "The  wound  is  progressing  satisfactorily." 

"I  am  greatly  indebted  to  you  for  your  attention," 
Gaythorne  said,  with  a  smile.  "Perhaps,  as  the  night 
is  young,  I  might  offer  you  a  little  further  hospitality. 
If  you  would  care  to  smoke  a  cigar  with  me  for  an 
hour,  the  advantage  would  be  on  my  side.  The  one 
drawback  of  these  country  hotels  is — they  are  devil- 
ishly dull  and  lonely  at  night." 

Stanley  was  not  eager  to  go,  but  he  did  not  desire 
to  appear  eager  to  stay.  He  made  some  pretext  of 
having  correspondence  awaiting  his  attention.  The 
other  man,  with  practiced  geniality,  overruled  the  ob- 
jections as  he  raised  them,  and  Waring  allowed  himself 
to  be  persuaded. 

More  spirits  were  ordered  by  Gaythorne,  and  the 
waiter  duly  appeared  with  cigars.  The  visitor  to  the 
Black  Lion  lounged  back  in  the  same  hooded  chair 
and  once  again,  by  a  trick  noticeable  to  an  alert  mind, 
gave  Waring  no  alternative  but  to  sit  with  the  full 
glare  of  the  light  beating  down  upon  his  features. 

Gaythorne  talked  well  and  easily  on  a  variety  of 
subjects.  He  touched  lightly  on  the  interests  he  fol- 
lowed in  town  and  painted  himself,  by  what  was  implied 
in  references  to  his  own  pursuits,  as  an  easy-going 

113 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


man  of  the  world.  He  seemed  to  be  talking  with  the 
desire  to  break  down  the  reserve  between  himself  and 
Waring,  and  the  latter  allowed  him  full  play. 

But  Waring,  listening  mostly,  answering  as  occasion 
demanded,  analyzed  the  lightest  word  as  it  was  spoken. 
Speedily  he  realized  the  small  talk  of  his  host  only 
paved  the  way  to  a  purpose  relentlessly  pursued, 
though  in  the  most  unconcerned  and  least  obvious  man- 
ner. The  circle  covered  by  Gaythorne's  talk  began 
quietly  to  narrow.  Waring,  much  to  his  own  elation 
and  amusement,  found  the  quiet  gossip  by  the  fireside 
of  the  Black  Lion  was  progressing  by  easy  stages 
into  a  direct  cross  examination.  The  questions 
were  couched  in  the  most  delicate  persiflage,  but,  dis- 
guised verbally  as  they  were  in  the  most  attractive 
manner,  they  were  questions  all  the  same  and  went  on 
progressively. 

"I  guess,  for  a  man  of  your  parts,"  Gaythorne  was 
saying,  "you  sometimes  find  the  country  dull." 

"Oh!  I  don't  know,"  Waring  replied,  smiling.  "I 
find  much  of  interest  in  this  little  place.  Then,  of 
course,  I  was  born  in  the  country.  Apart  from  that, 
I  am  on  a  vacation,  in  a  sense.  My  life  will  not  al- 
ways be  cast  in  Missingham." 

"You  will  be  going  into  private  practice — eh  ?"  Gay- 
thorne asked.  "Well — I  suppose  that  is  interesting — 
doctors  see  queer  things.  But  I  should  think  a  country 
practice  is  dreadfully  dull." 

Stanley  Waring  did  not  help  Gaythorne  out. 

The  latter  wandered  off  again  into  a  light  discussion 
touching  upon  the  gaieties  and  fuller  life  of  town.  But 
he  came  back  slowly  to  the  same  point  from  a  vivid  de- 

114 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


scription  of  a  fancy  dress  ball  and  an  early  morning 
Bohemian  breakfast. 

"I  like  this,  you  know,"  he  said,  at  last,  vaguely 
waving  his  hand,  apparently  taking  in  the  Black  Lion, 
Missingham,  and  the  routine  of  the  village  life.  "I 
find  the  stillness  of  the  country  a  change — for  a  week. 
But  what  you  do  with  yourself  for  a  year  at  a  time  in 
such  a  place — heaven  only  knows." 

Waring  smiled. 

"We  have  our  little  excitements,"  was  all  he  volun- 
teered, but  the  other  man  clutched  at  the  phrase  so 
quietly  spoken. 

Waring  noted  the  accession  of  interest.  It  was  not 
eagerly  displayed  nor  obvious,  but  Waring  knew  that 
in  the  smooth  duel  of  words  Gaythorne  had  found  his 
opening. 

"Ah!  yes,"  he  said,  taking  up  the  local  paper,  with 
studied  nonchalance.  "I  see  you  have  your  little  ex- 
citements. I've  been  reading  the  county  news.  It 
sounds  very  thrilling.  I  see  the  member  spoke  last 
week  and  the  Bucks  staghounds  killed  in  Farmer  Swain- 
son's  meadow  nearby.  And  you  had  a  circus  the  week 
before,  and  a  tea  for  parish  mothers." 

Stanley  Waring  permitted  himself  to  be  amused,  but 
said  nothing. 

"Yes — and  you  have  more  than  a  little  excitement 
occasionally,  I  notice,"  Gaythorne  was  saying,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  paper,  his  face  in  the  shadow  cast  by  the 
hooded  chair  back. 

Gaythorne  paused,  and  Waring  knew  he  was 
listening  for  the  slightest  change  of  sound  in  his 
voice. 

115 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"You  speak  of  our  murder?"  he  suggested,  naturally. 
"That  is,  of  course,  an  unusual  event  here — a  nine 
days'  wonder."  The  words  flowed  smoothly  from  his 
lips. 

Gaythorne,  in  the  long  following  pause,  seemed  to 
be  considering  his  next  step  in  the  conversation. 

"I  heard  something  about  the  affair  in  town,"  he 
began,  at  last,  speaking  easily.  "And  I've  been  amus- 
ing myself  by  reading  the  evidence  in  this  local  paper. 
An  old  crony  of  mine,  a  retired  Indian  servant,  is 
quite  a  student  of  criminology.  We  often  talk  mur- 
der together.  He  had  a  theory  about  this  one.  You 
and  he  ought  to  meet — you  were  rather  intimately  as- 
sociated with  the  gruesome  business,  I  read?" 

His  face  was  still  in  the  shadow  as  he  spoke. 

"More  intimately  than  I  desire  to  be  with  any  simi- 
lar event,"  Stanley  answered. 

"You  knew  the  murdered  man — Copeland?" 

"Yes." 

"And  his  daughter,  Miss  Copeland?" 

"Yes." 

Stanley  Waring  purposely  edged  his  replies  with  a 
reserve  that  indicated  the  subject  was  more  distasteful 
to  him  than  he  really  felt  it  to  be  in  his  own  mind.  He 
gave  to  his  staccato  affirmations  a  grim  edge  that 
made  it  impossible  for  Gaythorne  to  press  the  personal 
side  further  without  showing  his  hand. 

The  shadowed  face  moved  restlessly.  Stanley  thought 
there  was  a  hint  of  impatience  in  the  irritable  gesture 
accompanying  the  flicking  of  the  ash  from  his  cigar. 
The  voice  was  smooth  and  suave  when  it  spoke  again, 
and  Stanley  noted  the  questions  approached  the  point 

116 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


he  believed  Gaythorne  wanted  to  make  by  another 
path. 

"Yes "  Gaythorne  was  saying.     "You  ought  to 

meet  my  friend  Harrison.  His  passion  is  the  recon- 
struction of  crime  from  the  scant  details  usually  in 
the  hands  of  the  police — who,  by  the  way,  do  not  learn 
everything,  do  they?" 

Gaythorne  paused  after  his  indirect  question. 

"There  is  much  they  have  to  learn  about  the  Mis- 
singham  murder,"  Waring  agreed,  casually. 

"You  say  that  advisedly  ?"  asked  Gaythorne,  with  his 
first  show  of  eagerness. 

"No — I  think  it  is  obvious,"  Waring  said,  smiling  to 
himself.  "They  know  nothing  and  the  whole  affair 
rests  where  it  was  at  the  beginning." 

"You  think  there  were  elements  of  mystery  about 
it — eh?"  Gaythorne's  voice  still  betrayed  curiosity, 
though  his  face  remained  in  the  shadow. 

"I  think  there  is  much  left  to  explain,"  Stanley  re- 
plied, indifferently. 

Again  Stanley  noted  a  movement,  almost  impatient, 
of  the  hand  with  the  clawlike  fingers.  And,  again  baf- 
fled, Gaythorne  beat  back  to  his  original  approach. 

"My  friend  Harrison  has  made  some  wonderful 
guesses  in  solving  crimes  from  slender  materials,"  he 
went  on.  "He  reconstructed  the  Camberwell  crime  be- 
fore the  police  completed  the  case  and  were  in  a  posi- 
tion to  state  it  in  court.  He  has  formed  an  interest- 
ing theory  about  the  crime  here  in  Missingham,  by 
the  way." 

Stanley  Waring  yawned  ever  so  slightly. 

"Every  one  in  the  village  has  a  theory,"  he  allowed 
117 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


himself  to  say,  with  just  a  hint  of  mockery  in  the 
gleam  of  his  eyes. 

"Yes — I  know,"  persisted  Gaythorne,  his  voice  still 
and  smooth.  "We  are  all  amateur  detectives  now.  But 
Harrison's  theories  are  worth  more  attention  than  the 
average  man's.  Now,  you  had  the  opportunity  of 
seeing  the  tragedy  down  here  from  the  inside.  How 
does  this  explanation  of  Harrison's  strike  you?  He 
says  that  in  his  extensive  reading  of  criminal  history 
he  has  only  come  across  the  use  of  silver  wire  in 
strangling  cases  in  one  series  of  murders  before.  There 
were  three  of  them — in  quick  succession — two  in  Eu- 
rope and  one  in  New  York,  about  the  year  1890.  They 
were  all  attributed  to  one  gang  of  international  crimi- 
nals— the  Red  Four." 

Stanley  Waring,  listening  to  the  quiet  words,  had 
the  greatest  difficulty  in  concealing  emotion  as  he 
heard  his  own  knowledge  stated  as  a  matter  of  casual 
interest  by  the  man  whose  shadowed  face  was  staring 
at  his  own.  By  an  effort  he  controlled  himself,  and 
his  voice  was  just  as  monotonously  tranquil  as  his 
host's  when  he  answered. 

"The  Red  Four,"  he  said.  "I  seem  to  have 
heard  something  of  them,  but  they  were  before  my 
time." 

"The  odd  feature  of  every  one  of  their  crimes  com- 
mitted with  the  silver  wire  was  the  mark  of  a  cross, 
scored  on  the  forehead  of  the  victim.  Harrison  be- 
lieves that  Copeland's  murder  is  connected  with  some 
of  the  surviving  members  of  the  gang." 

"But  why?"  asked  Waring. 

"His  theory  is — vengeance  for  some  wrong  inflicted 
118 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


on  the  rest  long  ago,  and  possibly  the  hope  of  recover- 
ing the  traces  of  some  hidden  booty." 

Waring' s  face  did  not  change. 

"But  this  old  man,  living  out  his  life  in  a  quiet  vil- 
lage  "  Waring  began. 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  other  man's  voice,  now 
unmistakably  eager. 

"But  you  know  that  he  was  a  mystery,"  Gaythorne 
said. 

"Yes,"  admitted  Waring,  thoughtfully.  "There  was 
much  I  could  not  understand." 

"Harrison  says  the  jury  did  not  get  all  the  facts," 
Gaythorne  went  on,  speaking  rapidly.  "He  argues 
that  either  the  criminals  got  what  they  wanted  or  the 
police  missed  the  significance  of  papers  left  in  the  dead 
man's  possession.  Now,  you  were  on  the  inside — one 
of  the  first  at  this  house — Wayside  Lodge.  How  far 
would  that  square  with  your  knowledge  ?" 

Gaythorne  was  still  maintaining  his  role  of  the  de- 
tached stranger,  interested  mildly  in  a  criminal  prob- 
lem, but  Waring  knew  every  line  of  his  face  was  now 
under  a  deadly  scrutiny.  He  was  confirmed  in  his  be- 
lief that  Gaythorne's  visit  to  Missingham,  his  desire 
to  have  his  wound  seen  by  a  local  doctor,  the  suggestion 
of  a  friendly  talk,  all  were  part  of  an  elaborate  but 
reasonable  scheme  for  bringing  about  a  situation  that 
would  permit  of  the  last  question  to  be  put  to  himself. 
Whoever  Gaythorne  might  be,  the  actual  murderer  or 
one  of  the  Red  Four  concerned  as  an  accessory,  his 
mission  was  to  examine  the  only  man  who  had  access 
to  Paul  Copeland  before  and  after  the  crime,  save  the 
police  who  appeared  on  the  scene  after  the  discovery. 

119 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


Gaythorne  wanted  to  judge  by  his  manner  or  by  any 
word  he  let  fall  whether  the  missing  papers  had  passed 
into  Waring's  possession. 

"Your  friend  Harrison's  reconstruction  has  the  merit 
of  being  interesting,  at  all  events,"  Waring  found  him- 
self saying,  with  surprising  indifference.  "It  is  a 
theory  I  might  put  to  my  excellent  but  stupid  friend — 
Sergeant  Druce." 

"Pshaw !"  said  the  other,  now  unmistakably  irritated. 
"The  police!  They  never  know;  they  never  under- 
stand. But  you — you  were  in  this.  The  point  is — 
was  there  anything  worth  the  risk  of  this  crime,  be- 
yond revenge?" 

Gaythorne's  face  was  still  hidden  in  the  shadow,  but 
Waring  could  see  his  white  teeth  gleaming,  hungry 
and  expectant. 

"I  am  afraid  I  have  not  gone  into  the  matter  as  far 
as  your  friend  Harrison  has  done,"  Waring  answered. 
"The  coincidence  he  states  is  odd — very  odd — and  the 
matter  would  certainly  justify  investigation  if  such 
proofs  exist." 

The  interview  ended  there. 

Gaythorne,  in  his  role  of  bored  hotel  visitor,  con- 
versationally inclined,  had  made  his  point  and  asked 
his  question.  Waring,  still  genial,  in  his  role  of  visit- 
ing doctor,  helping  a  stranded  hotel  patient  to  pass 
the  time,  believed  Gaythorne  had  obtained  no  hint  of 
what  he  desired  to  know.  The  stranger  had  reached 
a  point  beyond  which  he  could  not  go  without  chal- 
lenging suspicion  by  asking  Waring  the  question  in  a 
manner  that  would  betray  his  personal  interest. 

All  this  Stanley  Waring  realized  by  the  other's  man- 
120 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


ner.  Gaythorne's  talk  lapsed  into  trivialities  of  the 
town  and  the  general  gossip  of  the  day.  Nor  was  his 
attitude  quite  so  cordial  or  interested.  Waring  felt 
the  pleasure  of  his  company  had  not  been  the  main- 
spring of  the  conversation.  The  object  of  the  meeting, 
having  been  pressed  to  the  point  of  failure,  Gaythorne 
had  no  immediate  use  for  his  guest,  though  they  still 
continued  to  chat  in  a  friendly  but  desultory  manner 
before  the  fire. 

Waring  at  last  rose  to  go,  and  Gaythorne  stood  up 
with  him.  He  rang  the  bell  and  asked  the  waiter  to 
send  his  chauffeur.  Then  he  remained  chatting  easily 
with  Waring.  So  closely  had  the  latter  followed  his 
host's  mental  processes  that  he  knew  at  the  moment  he 
was  being  detained  for  the  inspection  of  the  servant. 

The  chauffeur  entered  the  room — a  little  man  with 
a  head  close  cropped  and  a  face  clean  shaven.  He 
stood  in  the  hall  as  the  conversation  between  Gay- 
thorne and  Waring  tailed  out  into  a  polite  series  of 
parting  phrases,  and  all  the  time  Waring  realized  that 
the  servant  was  a  man  of  exceptional  personality,  like 
his  master,  and  was  noting  every  distinguishing  detail 
about  the  appearance  of  Gaythorne's  guest. 

When  Stanley  Waring  left  the  hotel,  master  and 
man  went  together  to  the  lounge. 

"That  is  the  man — eh?"  the  servant  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Gaythorne,  briefly,  and  his  curt  manner 
made  a  curious  contrast  to  the  suave  method  of  ad- 
dress employed  during  the  past  hour.  "His  name  is 
Stanley  Waring,  as  you  know.  I  want  you  to  find  out 
all  you  can  about  him,  and  pass  all  the  information  on 
to  me,  as  quickly  as  you  can  get  it." 

121 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


"Does  he  know,  guv'nor?"  asked  the  second  man, 
who  had  none  of  the  characteristic  manners  of  the 
trained  servant.  "Did  you  get  anything  out  of  him?'* 

"An  oyster  in  his  shell  could  not  have  been  closer," 
snarled  Gaythorne.  "I  cannot  quite  make  him  out.  I 
am  not  sure  whether  he  is  a  vacant  village  idiot  with 
nothing  to  tell  or  whether  that  head  of  his  contains 
all  we  want  to  know.  But  if  Copeland  or  his  own 
discoveries  put  him  wise,  he  is  dangerous,  for,  if  he 
has  sense  enough  to  keep  his  knowledge  back,  he  knows 
why  I  am  here." 

"If  he  has  what  we  want,  there'll  be  plenty  of  fight," 
the  chauffeur  said,  with  an  ugly  grin. 

"There  will,"  snapped  Gaythorne,  showing  his  teeth 
as  his  snarling  under  lip  drooped.  "And  that's  what 
we  have  to  find  out — how  much  this  whelp  does  know — 
and  smart  is  the  word." 


CHAPTER    XIII 

THE  morning  after  the  meeting  with  Gaythorne, 
Stanley  Waring  made  his  first  visit  to  Mark  S. 
James,  the  solicitor  of  14a  Temple  Court, 
whose  name  appeared  in  Paul  Copeland's  papers. 

Waring  decided  to  leave  Missingham  by  the  nine 
o'clock  train,  due  into  the  Great  Central  Station  at 
ten-fifteen. 

Since  the  night  of  Paul  Copeland's  murder,  a  great 
change  had  come  over  Stanley  Waring's  outlook  on 
life.  Event  had  followed  event  with  startling  rapidity. 
The  quiet  development  of  his  love  for  Vesta  Copeland 
had  been  rudely  interrupted  by  the  tragedy  she  had 
discovered.  The  casual  acquisition  of  Paul  Copeland's 
papers  had  suddenly  made  him  not  only  the  custodian 
of  a  dangerous  secret,  but  also  society's  instrument  for 
tracing  the  movements  of  at  least  three  scoundrels. 
And  now  he  had  the  knowledge,  gleaned  overnight,  that 
he  had  come  in  direct  touch  with  the  influences  operat- 
ing to  bring  about  Paul  Copeland's  end. 

These  thoughts  were  passing  in  Stanley  Waring's 
mind  as  he  left  the  schoolhouse  for  the  early  morning 
train.  A  sense  of  adventure,  the  thrill  of  contact  with 
the  Red  Colonel,  had  certainly  given  a  new  zest  to  life, 
and  in  some  degree  had  changed  his  attitude  to  it. 

The  secret  he  held  had  made  Waring  more  reserved 
in  manner.  He  lived  under  a  sense  of  being  the  object 
of  constantly  maintained  observation,  though,  apart 

123 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


from  the  events  of  the  previous  day,  no  evidence  even 
satisfactory  to  his  own  mind  proved  anyone  was  taking 
an  unusual  interest  in  his  life  outside  his  immediate 
connections. 

Waring  had  grown  conscious  of  the  necessity  of 
guarding  his  tongue  and  every  action,  lest  a  chance 
word  or  gesture  should  betray  knowledge  of  the  grim 
facts  surrounding  Paul  Copeland's  death.  As  he 
walked  rapidly  to  the  station,  Waring  was  conscious  of 
this  change  in  his  outlook.  He  felt  physically  nervous 
and  mentally  more  alert,  and  was  particularly  sus- 
ceptible to  external  influences.  Possession  of  Cope- 
land's  secret  had  given  to  Waring  an  alertness  one 
sees  expressed  oftenest  in  wild  animals,  at  once  hunters 
and  hunted,  as  they  adventure  forth  in  dangerous 
places. 

An  incident  marking  this  new  quality  occurred  al- 
most as  soon  as  Stanley  Waring  left  the  house. 

The  road  from  the  schoolhouse  led  directly  to  Mis- 
singham's  High  Street,  joining  the  main  thoroughfare 
at  right  angles.  As  Waring  turned  out  of  the  gate 
into  the  Tring  Road,  he  noticed  a  man  loitering  at  the 
corner  where  the  two  ways  joined. 

In  the  ordinary  way  Waring  would  not  have  ob- 
served the  presence  of  a  stranger.  On  this  morning 
his  mind  instantly  received  the  impression  that  the 
loiterer  was  Gaythorne's  chauffeur.  Almost  as  soon 
as  Waring  turned  out  of  the  house  into  the  lane  lead- 
ing to  the  main  street,  the  loiterer  moved  casually  off 
along  the  High  Street  and  out  of  sight. 

Conscious  of  this  fact,  Waring  went  rapidly  on  his 
way.  In  a  few  minutes  he  turned  into  the  High  Street, 

124 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


and  his  first  impression  was  confirmed.  Gaythorne's 
servant  was  walking  slowly  down  the  main  thorough- 
fare of  the  village  with  the  lounging  movements  of  a 
man  not  particularly  interested  in  his  surroundings. 
Waring,  noting  that  he  stopped  occasionally  to  peer 
into  a  shop  window,  passed  the  man  halfway  down  the 
street,  without  betraying  any  interest  in  his  move- 
ments. 

Waring  turned  off  for  the  station,  and  arrived  there 
three  minutes  before  the  up  train  was  due.  He  had 
taken  his  ticket,  when  Gaythorne's  chauffeur  turned 
into  the  station,  soon  enough  after  Waring's  arrival 
to  prove  he  had  quickened  up  his  gait  directly  the 
young  doctor  had  passed  him.  The  man  went  straight 
toward  the  platform,  and  when  Waring  emerged  from 
the  booking  office  he  was  making  a  purchase  of  morn- 
ing papers  at  the  bookstall.  As  Waring  reached  the 
bookstall,  the  two  stood  for  a  moment  side  by  side, 
Gaythorne's  man  fumbling  for  coins  in  a  leather  purse. 

Waring  picked  up  a  magazine  and  a  daily  paper 
and  carelessly  handed  his  coins  to  the  clerk.  As  he 
turned  away,  Waring's  quick  eyes  gleaned  a  fact  about 
Gaythorne's  chauffeur  as  important  to  his  mind  as  any 
of  the  startling  incidents  of  the  past  few  weeks. 

The  left  hand  of  the  stranger,  clutching  the  leather 
purse,  was  curiously  fine  and  white  for  a  working  man's. 
It  had  long,  tapering,  clawlike  fingers — the  slim,  pred- 
atory fingers  of  the  thief.  But  there  were  only  three 
of  them.  The  fourth  finger  was  missing. 

At  that  moment  the  up  train  steamed  in,  and  Stan- 
ley Waring  jumped  into  one  of  the  carriages  at  a 
standstill  opposite  to  the  bookstall. 

125 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Out  of  the  tail  of  his  eyes  he  noted  that  the  chauffeur, 
after  completing  his  purchase,  turned  idly  from  the 
stall,  looked  quickly  over  the  platform,  then  searched 
the  carriages  immediately  within  the  range  of  his  vi- 
sion, and  permitted  his  roving  glance  to  rest  for  a 
fraction  of  a  second  on  Waring's  face.  The  eye  did 
not  stop  in  its  searching  glance  or  indicate  any  sign 
of  having  seen  the  object  of  its  quest,  but  Waring 
knew  his  first  suspicion  was  right — Gaythorne's  man 
had  been  watching  him. 

Stanley  Waring  had  much  to  think  about  as  the 
train  traveled  swiftly  toward  London,  and  the  more 
he  thought  the  more  intricate  the  puzzle  grew. 

Gaythorne  was  the  Red  Colonel — of  that  Stanley 
felt  assured.  Gaythorne,  according  to  Vesta,  had  been 
seen  in  the  lane  near  Wayside  Lodge  on  the  night  of 
Copeland's  death.  The  Red  Colonel,  in  Stanley  War- 
ing's  eyes,  was  the  murderer,  yet  the  finger  prints 
showed  the  wounded  man  who  had  strangled  Paul  Cope- 
land  had  a  hand  with  only  three  fingers  upon  it.  Gay- 
thorne had  the  bullet  wound,  but  his  hand  was  not 
mutilated.  He  had  deliberately  challenged  Stanley  by 
baring  the  whole  wounded  limb.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  chauffeur  possessed  a  mutilated  hand,  but  no  bul- 
let wound.  Here  was  a  contradiction  on  a  matter 
of  fact  that  Waring  strove  to  reconcile  as  the 
train  tore  onward  to  London,  but  his  mind  had  not 
solved  the  riddle  when  his  carriage  drew  up  at  the 
terminus. 

Waring's  destination  was  Fleet  Street,  and  on  that 
journey  he  caught  himself  wondering  whether  he  was 
unduly  sensitive  to  external  impressions — whether,  in- 

126 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


deed,  the  alert  quality  of  his  mind  did  not  reveal  a  mere 
tendency  to  nerves  hypersensitively  jumpy. 

At  first  he  only  noted  a  well-dressed  stranger  stand- 
ing at  the  exit  at  Marylebone,  reading  a  sporting 
paper.  The  man  was  ostentatiously  well  dressed  in 
dark,  close-fitting  frock  coat  and  light  trousers — the 
silk  hat  upon  his  head  was  newly  ironed.  His  face  was 
dark,  Italian  in  character,  with  a  big,  curved  nose  dis- 
tinctly Jewish  in  type.  Stanley  Waring's  eye  rested 
on  this  man  casually,  simply  noting  him  in  passing  as 
a  personality  of  unusual  appearance  and  of  a  charac- 
ter marking  him  out  from  his  fellows. 

His  interest  grew  less  casual  when  he  found  the  same 
man  in  the  tube  lift,  taking  the  same  underground 
train,  but  even  then  Waring  did  not  associate  him  in 
any  way  with  his  own  affairs. 

Stanley  had  made  the  journey  to  Charing  Cross  and 
had  taken  a  bus  to  the  Chancery  Lane  end  of  Fleet 
Street,  as  being  the  nearest  point  to  his  destination. 
He  had  ridden  on  the  top  of  the  bus  and  dropped  off 
the  footboard  of  the  vehicle  as  it  swung  along  the 
street  and  passed  the  entrance  to  the  Temple. 

Waring*s  attention  was  riveted,  however,  at  once 
as  he  stood  hesitating  on  the  pavement,  for  the  same 
bus  suddenly  stopped  and  the  man  he  had  seen  twice 
before  since  he  arrived  at  Marylebone  station  got 
quickly  off  the  footboard. 

Waring's  swift,  instant  impression  was  that  the  dark 
man  with  the  Italian  features  and  the  prominent  nose 
was  following  him.  Stanley  realized  this  with  a  gasp 
of  astonishment.  His  mind  had  been  far  from  the 
thought  that  the  net  into  which  he  had  begun  to  stray 

•127 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


could  weave  its  meshes  about  him,  even  as  he  stood, 
a  stranger,  in  a  London  street.  It  comes  as  a  shock 
to  a  perfectly  innocent  man  to  feel  his  movements  are 
under  close  and  persistent  scrutiny,  and  Stanley,  for  a 
moment,  had  the  panic-stricken  belief  that  London  was 
policed  by  men  who  were  tools  of  the  Red  Colonel. 
The  mere  suspicion  that  he  could  be  placed  under 
observation  in  Fleet  Street  so  easily  gave  Stanley  War- 
ing a  new  respect  for  the  Red  Colonel,  and  served  as 
another  reminder  of  the  necessity  of  being  wary  of 
every  step  he  took  in  trying  to  bring  about  his  fall. 

To  make  sure  his  surmise  was  correct,  Stanley  War- 
ing idled  about  Fleet  Street.  He  saw  that,  when  he 
stopped,  the  stranger  stopped,  too.  When  Stanley 
betrayed  absorption  in  the  exhibits  in  a  picture  dealer's 
window,  the  other  man  stopped,  apparently  excited  by 
the  advertisements  in  a  daily  newspaper  displayed 
three  shops  further  away.  Waring  entered  a  tobacco 
store  and  made  several  purchases.  He  dawdled  over 
his  selection  of  cigarettes  and  a  pipe  purposely,  talk- 
ing freely  with  the  shopman.  Some  minutes  elapsed 
before  he  left  the  tobacconist's,  but  the  man  who  had 
shadowed  him  from  Marylebone  was  still  near,  looking 
persistently  into  the  window  of  the  next  shop. 

Then  Stanley  had  something  in  the  nature  of  an 
inspiration. 

He  decided  to  go  about  his  business  as  if  he  had  no 
suspicion  of  the  observation  of  the  man  at  his  heels. 
He  turned  slowly  from  the  shop  he  had  left  and 
plunged  through  one  of  the  by-paths  in  Fleet  Street 
until  he  came  to  Temple  Court,  a  narrow  thoroughfare 
of  old-fashioned  houses,  just  outside  one  of  the  Temple 

128 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Gates.  No.  14a  was  a  double-fronted  building  with 
four  floors.  On  either  side  of  the  door  was  a  long 
list  of  firms  occupying  offices  on  the  various  floors. 
Stanley  smiled  to  himself  as  he  wondered  how  the  man 
who  shadowed  him  would  find  out  the  name  of  the  firm 
he  was  visiting.  He  had  yet  to  learn  the  extent  of 
the  Red  Colonel's  knowledge  or  his  resources. 

Without  looking  back,  Stanley  Waring  walked  into 
the  building,  his  quick  eye  noting  that  "Mark  S.  James, 
Solicitor  and  Commissioner  of  Oaths"  appeared  in  a 
list  of  occupants  of  suites  on  the  second  floor.  He 
turned  to  the  stairway  and  soon  found  the  address  he 
wanted.  Tapping  on  the  doorway,  Waring  entered 
the  outer  office,  and  a  boy  took  in  his  card. 

After  an  interval  of  about  two  minutes  a  door  opened 
near  Waring  and  an  elderly  man  stood,  calling  upon 
him  to  enter. 

Waring  followed  the  beckoning  figure,  and  found 
himself  entering  the  office  of  Mr.  James. 

Paul  Copeland's  solicitor  was  a  spare  man  of  per- 
haps fifty  years  of  age.  Slightly  above  the  average  in 
height,  he  stooped  a  little  in  the  manner  of  a  man 
who  spends  much  time  at  the  desk.  He  was  neatly 
dressed  in  the  professional  habit  of  another  generation 
— his  black  frock  coat  tightly  buttoned  and  fitting  his 
figure,  his  linen  collar  cut  low,  the  folds  of  a  rusty 
black  tie  being  drawn  together  through  a  gold  ring. 
Mr.  James  was  of  the  race  of  grave  men  one  asso- 
ciates only  with  the  law.  His  face  was  long,  lean  and 
white.  His  eyes  were  bright  and  shrewd,  and  peered 
from  behind  gold-rimmed  spectacles.  His  mouth  had 
a  certain  air  of  prim  determination  indicating  that 

129 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


the  man  could  be  obstinate  if  he  chose.  His  hair  was 
light  colored  and  closely  cropped,  while  it  had  thinned 
out  into  bald  patches.  Mr.  James  worked  in  a  large 
somber  room,  typical  of  the  lawyer.  His  big  desk  in 
the  center  was  littered  with  papers.  Round  one  wall 
ran  wooden  shelves  fitted  with  musty  textbooks.  A  big 
safe  glowered  beside  the  fireplace  and  behind  James 
when  he  was  working.  Piled  up  against  the  other 
walls  were  rows  and  rows  of  black  japanned  deed  boxes, 
with  the  names  of  clients  painted  on  them  in  white 
lettering.  A  few  shabby  leather  chairs  completed  the 
furnishing  of  the  room.  Although  the  apartment  was 
to  the  front  and  looked  down  upon  the  open  street,  it 
had  that  atmosphere  of  dust  and  gloom,  a  settled  air 
of  melancholy,  only  found  in  the  lawyer's  office  of  con- 
siderable standing. 

"Mr. — er — Waring?"  the  solicitor  said,  looking  from 
the  card  to  his  visitor. 

"Yes — Mr.  James,  I  presume,"  Waring  added. 

"I  have  not  the — er — pleasure  of  knowing "  Mr. 

James  began,  doubtfully,  and  then  broke  off  again. 
"Tut,  tut!  where  are  my  wits.  Your  name  is  familiar. 
Now  I  remember.  If  you  are  Waring,  you  were  con- 
cerned with  the  death  of  Paul  Copeland." 

"Yes,"  Stanley  said,  earnestly;  "I  came  to  see  you 
by  his  direction  about  Miss  Vesta  Copeland's  affairs." 

The  other  eyed  him  narrowly  for  some  seconds. 

"To  be  sure,"  he  said,  at  last,  his  lips  tight  and 
prim.  "I  was  expecting  you." 

The  announcement  of  Stanley  Waring's  business  pro- 
duced an  extraordinary  effect  on  the  elderly  lawyer. 
He  went  to  the  two  doors  and  locked  them  carefully. 

130 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


He  then  drew  a  chair  to  the  side  of  the  desk  farthest 
from  the  doors  and  motioned  Stanley  toward  it.  Drop- 
ping quietly  into  the  chair  he  had  vacated,  Mr.  James 
opened  a  drawer  in  the  desk  and  took  out  a  small  re- 
volver— a  weapon  that  gleamed  wickedly  as  it  lay  be- 
tween the  two  men,  but  nearest  to  the  hand  of  Mark 
S.  James. 

"Now — Mr.  Waring,"  he  said;  "you  will  forgive  my 
brusqueness,  but  I  require  proof  of  the  bona  fide  char- 
acter of  any  one  who  comes  to  see  me  as  a  consequence 
of  knowledge  he  has  acquired  from  Paul  Copeland's 
papers." 

Stanley  laughed  easily  at  the  elder  man's  threatening 
attitude. 

Before  sitting  down  he  walked  to  the  window  and 
looked  out  into  the  street. 

The  man  who  had  shadowed  him  from  the  Maryle- 
bone  station  to  this  quiet  street  in  the  shadow  of  the 
Temple  was  walking  slowly  up  and  down  the  court, 
about  fifty  yards  away  from  the  main  entrance  to  the 
offices. 

"Have  you  a  confederate  out  there?"  the  lawyer 
asked,  grimly,  still  watching  his  visitor  narrowly. 

"No — I  have  a  shadow,"  Waring  answered,  surprised 
at  the  other's  manner. 

"Ah !"  Mr.  James  said,  his  manner  changing  slightly. 
"If  you  are  Waring,  I  see  you  are  beginning  to  sense 
some  of  the  danger  surrounding  the  secrets  you  have 
acquired.  Perhaps  you  will  state  your  business  and, 
first  of  all,  prove  to  me  you  are  the  man  you  profess 
to  be.  It  is  a  matter  of  prime  urgency  that  you 
should  convince  me  at  once." 

131 


CHAPTER    XIV 

THE  attitude  taken  up  by  Paul  Copeland's  solici- 
tor seemed  unusual  io  the  point  where  it  bor- 
dered on  the  eccentric  to  Stanley  Waring.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  had  begun  to  expect  the  unusual  in 
connection  with  affairs  in  any  way  touching  upon  the 
interests  of  the  Red  Four.  Instead  of  being  surprised 
— or  at  least  showing  it — he  accepted  the  situation  as 
it  stood. 

Waring  had  never  before  taken  part  in  an  interview 
where  proof  of  identity  was  regarded  as  one  of  the 
preliminaries,  and  for  the  moment  he  was  slightly  em- 
barrassed as  he  thought  over  the  possible  procedure. 

"I  am  afraid  we  shall  not  get  very  far  with  this  inter- 
view to-day,"  he  began,  pleasantly  enough,  "if  you 
doubt  my  statement  that  I  am  Stanley  Waring.  Our 
business  will  have  to  be  postponed  until  you  have  had 
time  to  investigate  my  personal  claims." 

Mr.  James  altered  his  manner  slightly  at  the  frank 
recognition  of  his  right  to  make  an  unreasonable  de- 
mand. Perhaps  Waring*s  frank  address  did  its  share 
in  softening  the  sharp  edge  of  his  address. 

"I  guess  you  think  me  slightly  unprofessional,"  he 
said,  speaking  in  a  prim,  high-pitched  voice.  As  he 
spoke  Mr.  James  smiled,  but  his  eyes  were  fixed  stead- 
ily on  the  man  before  him. 

"It  certainly  is  not  usual,  in  any  professional  rela- 
tionships I  know,  to  demand  proof  of  the  identity  of 

132 


THE   BED    COLONEL 


a  caller   at  the  point  of  a   revolver,"   Stanley   said, 
smiling  at  the  grotesque  character  of  the  idea. 

"Quite  true — quite  true,"  the  high-pitched  voice 
agreed.  "But  this  is  not  a  usual  business.  Perhaps 
the  best  proof  of  identity  you  can  give  is  to  tell  me 
why  you  are  here." 

"I  can  only  repeat,"  Stanley  urged,  "that  I  am  here 
on  behalf  of  Miss  Vesta  Copeland.  Perhaps  I  ought 
to  tell  you  of  the  circumstances  surrounding  her 
father's  end." 

"No,"  the  older  man  answered.  "That  is  unneces- 
sary. I  know  all  that  appeared  in  the  newspapers 
about  the  matter — and  a  little  more,"  he  added,  look- 
ing up  quickly.  "Tell  me,  what  is  Miss  Copeland  to 
you?" 

"I  hope,  in  the  near  future,  to  make  her  my  wife," 
Waring  answered,  proudly.  "At  the  moment  she  re- 
sides with  my  people  at  Missingham.  We  obtained 
Paul  Copeland's  consent  to  our  marriage  the  very 
night  he  died." 

,     "Humph! — very  plausible,"  the  solicitor  answered, 
"but  not  convincing." 

"Then  I  can  only  ask  you  to  visit  Missingham," 
Waring  said,  irritably.  "You  might  see  my  people, 
Miss  Copeland,  a  few  of  the  villagers  who  have  known 
me  from  birth,  and  perhaps" — here  Waring's  lips 
curled — "my  birth  certificate  itself." 

"Tut,  tut!"  the  other  rejoined,  smiling  at  Waring's 
manner.  "If  you  are  Waring,  you  will  know  I  am  not 
exactly  a  fool  in  my  folly.  Your  answers  to  a  few 
questions  will  prove  all  I  want  to  learn.  You  knew 
Paul  Copeland— eh?" 

133 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


"Yes,"  Stanley  replied. 

"You  knew  his  past,  perhaps?"  the  lawyer  asked. 

"Some  of  it — yes." 

"Then  why  did  you  remain  silent  at  the  inquest?" 
James  asked,  sternly. 

"There  were  three  others  in  the  Red  Four,"  Waring 
answered,  with  convincing  directness.  "I  am  going 
after  them." 

The  lawyer's  eyes  brightened  and  he  eyed  Stanley 
curiously  for  a  few  moments  in  silence. 

"Humph !"  he  answered,  at  length.  "One  other  ques- 
tion. Who  has  Paul  Copeland's  private  papers — are 
they  in  your  hands,  mine,  or  the  Red  Colonel's?" 

"You  have  the  papers  relating  to  Vesta  Copeland's 
private  means,"  Waring  said,  catching  the  drift  of  the 
prim  lawyer's  questions.  "I  have  the  few  papers  relat- 
ing to  Paul  Copeland.  The  Red  Colonel  made  an 
error  in  his  calculations.  The  information  he  wanted 
passed  into  my  hands  on  the  night  of  the  crime." 

"Show  me  the  papers,"  Mr.  James  said,  his  manner 
changing. 

Stanley  Waring  handed  over  the  memoranda  written 
by  Paul  Copeland.  The  rest  of  the  details  inclosed  in 
the  envelope  Waring  had  left  carefully  hidden  in  his 
rooms. 

Mr.  James  read  the  paper  carefully,  and  at  the  end 
of  his  scrutiny  nodded  slowly. 

"These  were  not  all?"  he  said,  tapping  the  papers. 

"No." 

"Where  are  the  other  items?"  he  asked. 

"At  Missingham,  securely  hidden.  They  prove  noth- 
ing without  a  visit  to  the  house.  I  did  not  think  it 

134 


necessary,  at  this  juncture,  to  produce  them  for  your 
inspection." 

Mr.  James  folded  the  papers  and  returned  them,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  Waring's  face.  The  other  pocketed  the 
documents  without  any  change  of  manner. 

"I  am  satisfied  you  are  Waring,"  James  said,  at 
last. 

"Why?"  Waring  asked. 

"Because  you  have  brought  those  papers  to  me." 

"I  do  not  quite  follow  your  reasoning,"  Waring 
suggested. 

"Very  simple,  I  assure  you,"  the  lawyer  answered. 
"I  read  the  inquest  proceedings  closely.  In  one  or 
two  matters  they  left  me  in  a  fog.  I  failed  to  gather 
who  had  the  papers.  If  the  Red  Colonel  failed,  I  ex- 
pected him  to  call  on  me,  because  he  knows  I  was  act- 
ing for  Copeland,  though  I  do  not  quite  see  how  he 
gained  the  knowledge.  If  he  did  not  find  the  papers 
in  Copeland's  rooms,  he  would  assume  them  to  be  in 
the  possession  of  the  only  man  he  knew  to  be  in  Cope- 
land's  confidence.  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
papers  had  passed  to  him,  as  neither  you  nor  the  police 
made  any  sign.  I  admit  I  overlooked  the  possibility 
of  your  having  them,  owing  to  your  public  silence. 
When  your  name  was  before  me  I  suddenly  realized 
you  had  the  papers.  My  belief  was  that  the  Red 
Colonel  would  know  that,  too.  I  was  therefore  pre- 
pared for  the  possibility  that  he  might  anticipate  your 
visit  by  sending  one  of  his  emissaries  to  pump  me  or 
forcibly  to  search  my  office,  using  your  identity  as  a 
cloak  for  the  introduction.  I  apologize  for  seeming 
to  doubt  you.  Now,  sir,  you  are  a  shrewd  youngster, 

135 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


I  can  see.  Do  you  know  what  the  possession  of  this 
knowledge  means  to  you?" 

"Yes,"  Stanley  answered.     "At  least,  I  can  guess." 

"Your  knowledge  means  hourly  danger — you  appre- 
ciate that?"  Mr.  James  said,  his  voice  sinking. 

"Yes — I  quite  realize  the  position,"  Waring  said, 
slowly.  "I  came  to  see  how  far  you  could  help  me 
to " 

The  elderly  lawyer  stopped  Waring  by  breaking 
rudely  into  the  sentence  he  was  speaking. 

"I  am  going  to  make  my  position  clear,"  he  began, 
speaking  rapidly.  "I  desire  to  know  nothing  of  Paul 
Copeland's  affairs.  I  learned,  in  a  general  way,  what 
he  was.  >  I  know,  too,  that  he  held  a  secret  leading  to 
great  wealth.  I  refused  to  allow  Copeland  to  tell  me 
the  secret,  and  I  desire  you  to  keep  the  knowledge  to 
yourself  if  you  have  it.  There  are  two  reasons  for 
this.  First — a  knowledge  of  the  matter  would  be  un- 
professional if  I  did  not  share  it  with  the  police.  Sec- 
ondly, I  am  an  aging  man.  My  taste  for  excitement, 
for  a  life  of  daily  risk,  has  vanished.  I  have  lived 
over  the  period  of  life  when  danger  is  fascinating,  and 
one  deliberately  looks  for  trouble  on  the  slightest  hint 
of  its  whereabouts.  Besides,  I  have  already  suffered 
enough." 

"You  mean "  began  Waring. 

"Just  what  I  say."  Mr.  James  answered  the  un- 
spoken question  decisively.  "Already,  in  five  years, 
my  remote  connection  with  Paul  Copeland  has  cost  me 
much  annoyance  and  no  little  anxiety.  My  office  here 
has  been  forcibly  entered.  An  attempt  was  made  on 
my  private  house  at  Hampstead.  I  have  been  brow- 

136 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


beaten,  during  a  solitary  walk,  by  a  man  I  had  never 
seen  before,  for  knowledge  of  Paul  Copeland's  where- 
abouts. Of  late  I  have  come  to  think  they  believe  I 
know  little  of  Copeland  and  his  secret.  Latterly  they 
have  left  me  alone." 

The  man's  manner  was  both  positive  and  urgent. 
He  seemed  to  be  laboring  under  a  sense  of  deep  un- 
rest. 

"You  think  all  these  annoyances  are  due  to  the  same 
agents?"  Waring  asked. 

"I  do."  The  other's  voice  shook  a  little  with  anx- 
iety. "And,  since  you  have  been  followed  here,  they 
will  begin  again.  I  refused  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  Paul  Copeland's  affairs,  and  I  refuse  to  know 
anything  more  about  them  now.  There  is  an  atmos- 
phere of  life  or  death  about  the  methods  of  his  late 
friends  that  is  not  good  for  the  peace  of  mind  of  a 
man  who  desires  only  a  quiet  life  for  the  evening  of  his 
days." 

Stanley  Waring  looked  at  the  man  before  him,  a 
puzzled  frown  on  his  healthy,  youthful  face. 

"Why  did  you  touch  the  matter  at  all?"  he  said,  at 
last. 

The  older  man's  face  softened  a  little  as  he  paused 
before  answering. 

"A  matter  of  sentiment,"  he  said,  at  length,  "a  weak- 
ness undesirable  in  all  men,  most  of  all  in  a  lawyer. 
Vesta  Copeland's  mother,  you  may  perhaps  be  sur- 
prised to  know,  was  my  sister.  I  knew  her  husband — 
Vesta's  father,  a  thoroughly  worthy  man.  I  desired 
to  protect  the  girl's  interest,  and  when  Copeland  came 
to  me  and  told  me  his  wife  was  dead,  and  outlined  some- 

137 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


thing  of  what  his  life  had  been,  I  agreed  to  help  him 
only  on  one  set  of  conditions." 

"And  they  were?"  Waring  asked. 

"That  Vesta's  interests  should  be  secured  only  so 
far  as  her  possessions  honestly  acquired  by  inheritance 
were  concerned.  That  the  whole  of  her  property 
should  be  transferred  to  me — and  only  her  property. 
That  Copeland  should  trust  me  as  an  honest  man  to 
safeguard  these  interests.  That  from  the  moment  he 
did  so  he  should  not  appear  to  have  a  single  connection 
with  the  properties  left  in  my  care." 

"And  he  agreed  to  that?" 

"He  had  to.  I  was  the  only  link  in  the  family  con- 
nection. I  was  the  only  man  he  dared  to  trust.  I  was 
the  only  man  he  could  trust." 

"What,  then,  is  your  advice?"  Waring  asked,  more 
and  more  mystified  by  the  other's  manner. 

The  other  rose,  walked  toward  him,  and  placed  his 
hand  almost  affectionately  on  the  younger  man's  shoul- 
ders. 

"Forget  Paul  Copeland,"  he  said,  impressively.  "He 
was  not  worth  the  sacrifice  of  a  moment's  thought  on 
the  part  of  an  honest  man.  All  that  Vesta  is  entitled 
to  I  have,  and  there  is  not  the  stain  of  blood  or  the 
tarnished  breath  of  crime  upon  a  single  guinea  of  it. 
Copeland,  I  see,  puts  the  estate  down  at  £10,000.  By 
my  own  careful  investment  it  is  now  nearer  to  £15,000 
— a  nice  sum,  if  not  a  large  one.  Leave  the  whole 
ugly,  sinister  business  at  that.  Let  me  administer  or 
realize  for  you,  as  you  will,  the  possessions  standing 
under  Miss  Copeland's  real  name,  Vesta  Forsyth,  and 
leave  the  old  story  where  it  was  before  you  found  these 

138 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


few  links  buried  in  the  past.  Greed  of  this  dead  man's 
dishonorable  gold  will  bring  its  own  punishment — a 
life  of  unrest  and  perhaps,  as  has  been  the  way  of 
many  in  touch  with  these  men,  a  violent  death." 

Stanley  Waring  rose  and  faced  the  older  man,  im- 
pressed by  his  words. 

"Believe  me,  sir,'*  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "it  is  not 
greed  of  gold,  as  you  put  it,  that  brings  me  here.  I 
do  not  want  to  touch  a  single  tainted  sovereign  of  the 
dead  man's  hoard." 

"I  know,"  the  lawyer  answered,  kindly.  "At  least, 
I  do  not  know;  but  some  little  knowledge  of  character 
tells  me  that  when  I  glance  at  your  face.  Bury  your 
knowledge  and  forget  it — as  I  have  tried  to  do." 

"But  I  cannot,  sir,"  Waring  said,  positively,  shaking 
his  head. 

"Why,"  asked  Mr.  James,  looking  steadily  and  with 
some  disappointment  at  the  younger  man. 

"For  the  reason  you  have  already  given,"  Waring 
replied.  "The  matter  is  out  of  my  hands.  I  am  drawn 
into  the  game  willy  nilly.  The  Red  Colonel  knows.  I 
can  only  fall  out  of  this  tangle  by  playing  the  coward's 
part.  And  I  simply  cannot  do  that." 

Mark  James  looked  still  more  kindly  on  Stanley 
Waring. 

"I  think  I  understand,"  he  said,  gently.  "They 
know  you  hold  the  secret  and  are  already  on  your 
trail?" 

"Yes — I  believe  I  have  even  now  met  the  Red  Colo- 
nel," Stanley  answered,  grimly.  "Either  I  give  in 
without  a  blow  and  hand  over  to  the  surviving  members 
of  the  Red  Four  what  they  want,  condone  the  murder 

139 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


of  Copeland  and  the  other  worthier  men  they  may 
have  butchered,  and  make  possible  further  crimes  in 
the  future  by  letting  them  go  in  safety — or  I  fight." 

"What  is  your  decision?"  the  lawyer  asked,  gravely, 
though  his  manner  seemed  to  indicate  he  knew  the  an- 
swer. 

"I  fight,"  Stanley  said,  simply.  "I  take  the  risk 
and  go  after  them  alone." 

James  nodded  his  head  slowly. 

"That  also  I  knew  from  your  manner,"  he  said, 
simply.  "Yours  is  that  kind  of  face.  There  is  some- 
thing of  the  hound  about  its  outlines.  Well,  it  is  a 
matter  for  yourself.  I  wish  you  luck  and — safety." 

The  solicitor  did  not  try  to  dissuade  Waring.  A 
man  of  the  world,  he  knew  his  type. 

"If  I  can  help,  I  will,"  he  added,  almost  grudgingly. 
"But  at  present  nothing  is  to  be  gained  by  making  me 
a  party  to  an  adventure  the  prospect  of  which  I  cor- 
dially dislike.  What  do  you  purpose  doing  first?" 

"I  would  like  to  see  the  house  standing  in  Vesta's 
name,"  Stanley  said,  at  once. 

"That,  I  think,  will  be  easy,"  the  solicitor  answered. 
"I  let  that  years  ago,  when  Copeland  left  it.  I  will 
write  to  the  agent  about  it  to-night,  and  send  you  on 
the  particulars.  What  of  Vesta  Copeland's  income?" 

"How  does  that  stand?"  Waring  asked. 

"She  has  never  drawn  on  it  direct,"  the  lawyer  an- 
swered. "Paul  Copeland  apparently  maintained  her. 
I  doubt  if  she  knows  of  the  existence  of  the  properties. 
You  can  let  her  know  as  much  as  you  deem  safe  and 
she  can  draw  on  me  for  anything  up  to  £600  a  year. 
At  your  convenience  and  hers,  you  can  go  over  the 

140 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


details  of  Miss  Copeland's  possessions.  I  will  have 
them  all  looked  up." 

Stanley  Waring  rose  to  go,  his  manner  expressing 
some  reluctance. 

"I  thought  you  would  have  told  me  more  of  Cope- 
land,"  he  said,  before  departing. 

"I  am  afraid  you  must  believe  me  when  I  say  I  do 
not  know  much  more  than  you  do.  I  do  not  even 
know  how  my  sister  met  her  end.  I  only  know  the 
general  outlines  of  the  story  as  it  has  been  revealed  to 
you.  I  refused  to  know  more.  If  I  can  think  of  any 
sidelight  on  the  matter  likely  to  help  you,  depend  on 
me  I  will  see  you  are  put  into  quick  possession  of  the 
facts." 

With  this  slight  concession,  Stanley  Waring  had  to 
be  content.  He  left,  after  a  cordial  handshake,  con- 
vinced of  the  integrity  and  the  sincerity  of  the  old- 
world  lawyer  of  Temple  Court,  and,  such  is  the  out- 
look of  lusty  youth  when  confronted  with  the  prospect 
of  adventure,  perhaps  a  little  contemptuous  of  the 
quiet  old  man's  timidity. 

As  he  walked  out  of  the  building,  hesitating  for  a 
second  on  the  entrance  steps  before  making  a  plunge 
into  the  street,  he  saw  the  man  who  had  shadowed  him 
from  Marylebone  lounging  on  the  other  side  of  the 
road,  studiously  reading  the  photographs  and  letter- 
press displayed  in  the  window  of  a  publisher's  office. 

Without  showing  any  signs  of  a  knowledge  that  he 
was  observed  Waring  threaded  his  way  to  Fleet  Street, 
and  the  man  of  Italian  aspect,  suddenly  becoming  alert 
and  active,  followed  unobtrusively  in  his  wake. 


141 


CHAPTER    XV 

STANLEY  WARING  returned  to  Missingham  on 
a  train  leaving  town  after  lunch. 
Much  to  his  amusement,  the  man  of  Italian 
habit  clung  to  Waring  like  a  shadow  until  the  train 
drew  out  of  the  station.  Part  of  Waring's  enjoyment 
of  the  situation  was  his  ability  to  take  the  Red  Colonel's 
spy  on  a  journey  trying  to  the  temper  and  without  any 
possibility  of  profit.  Waring,  during  that  day's  visit 
to  London,  occupied  himself  no  further  with  inquiries 
relating  to  the  affairs  of  Paul  Copeland.  He  judged 
it  safer  to  wait  the  next  move  on  the  part  of  his  ene- 
mies, who,  believing  they  were  fighting  in  the  dark* 
would  be  sure  to  take  action  without  any  unnecessary 
loss  of  time. 

Waring  had  no  doubt  in  his  mind  now  that  Gay- 
thorne,  unlikely  as  it  seemed,  was  associated  with  the 
crime.  He  realized  the  chauffeur  had  reported  his 
departure  as  soon  as  he  left  the  station,  and  a  close 
description  of  his  appearance  had  been  sent  to  the 
third  man  who  had  continued  to  watch  Waring's  move- 
ments through  the  town. 

As  he  traveled  back  Waring  realized  also  that  in 
his  further  London  inquiries  he  would  have  to  devise 
some  scheme  for  evading  the  espionage  of  Gaythorne's 
agents  and  of  playing  the  spy  on  them,  in  his  turn. 
Waring's  mind  was  busy  with  the  many  preoccupations 
arising  from  the  incidents  of  the  last  two  days,  and 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


more  and  more  he  appreciated  the  growing  seriousness 
of  the  task  Fate  had  set  him — that  of  treading  stealth- 
ily and  warily  on  the  heels  of  the  criminals  whose  ruth- 
less actions  proved  they  stopped  at  nothing  when  op- 
position stood  between  them  and  their  own  desires. 

One  or  two  events  had  occurred  in  Missingham  to 
surprise  Stanley  Waring  on  his  return. 

At  the  station  he  found  himself  looking  eagerly  for 
the  figure  of  the  man  who  had  watched  him  depart. 
His  mind  was  now  bent  on  the  three  men  whose  ac- 
tions seemed  to  be  influencing  his  own  and  crowding 
in  on  his  daily  life. 

The  man  referred  to  as  Cunning  by  Gaythorne  was 
not  present  on  the  Missingham  platform,  but  some  one 
was  waiting  to  meet  Waring — Vesta  Copeland.  The 
girl  had  apparently  come  to  the  station  on  the  chance 
of  her  lover  being  on  that  train,  and  her  face  was 
radiant  with  delighted  blushes  as  her  glance  fell  upon 
his  well-known  figure. 

"Why — you  do  not  even  seem  to  be  glad  I  have  come 
to  meet  you,"  Vesta  said.  "You  look  as  if  you  ex- 
pected to  see  someone  else." 

So  closely  had  Waring's  mind  been  concentrated  on 
the  possible  appearance  of  any  of  the  survivors  of  the 
Red  Four  that  he  had,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  found  him- 
self almost  unable  to  respond  instantly  to  another  influ- 
ence. He  made  amends  for  his  apparent  preoccupation 
by  at  once  giving  all  his  thought  to  the  eager  girl 
who  walked  by  his  side. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  have  come,"  Vesta  said,  as  they 
turned  from  the  station  into  the  darkening  village 
street.  "I  have  been  so  anxious." 

143 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


"Why?"  asked  Waring,  concentrating  his  attention 
on  the  girl.  "You  surely  were  not  concerned  about 
me." 

"Egotist,"  she  laughed,  and  then  looked  at  him, 
proudly.  "No — I  was  not  concerned  about  you.  I 
always  feel  my  big,  strong  lover  can  take  care  of  his 
own  destiny.  I  am  concerned  about  an  incident  that 
has  happened  to  myself." 

Waring,  as  he  heard  the  words,  felt  a  shy  pressure 
on  his  arm,  and  knew  from  the  slightly  trembling  hand 
that,  light  as  the  girl's  words  were,  she  was  laboring 
under  some  excitement. 

"What  has  happened  ?"  he  asked,  eagerly.  "Nothing 
disturbing,  I  hope." 

"I  do  not  quite  know,"  Vesta  replied,  with  a  laugh 
suggesting  the  high  tension  of  her  spirits.  "You  may 
think  me  foolish  and  that  I  make  mountains  out  of 
molehills." 

"Tell  me  everything  unusual  that  has  happened  and 
leave  me  to  think  what  I  like,"  he  urged. 

"I  have  been  followed,"  Vesta  Copeland  said.  "Fol- 
lowed for  at  least  an  hour  to-day." 

Waring  started  slightly  at  the  girl's  suggestion. 
Here  was  a  new  danger  he  had  not  at  once  reckoned 
upon — the  possibility  of  some  of  the  attentions  show- 
ered upon  himself  being  diverted  in  the  direction  of  the 
girl  he  was  most  desirous  of  protecting. 

"Are  you  sure?"  he  asked,  his  manner  troubled. 

"Yes — by  a  little  man;  a  rather  odd  little  man.  I 
noticed  him  first  this  morning  as  I  left  home  for  the 
village.  He  was  standing  outside  the  schoolhouse  gates, 
looking  up  at  the  windows." 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"Could  you  describe  him?"  Stanley  asked,  eagerly. 

"Yes,"  Vesta  said,  promptly.  "A  little  man,  well 
under  the  medium  height.  He  wore  a  long  overcoat 
reaching  to  his  heels  and  a  soft  tweed  hat  coming  low 
down  upon  the  face.  He  carried  a  heavy  stick  and 
was  leaning  on  it  when  I  first  saw  him.  I  noticed, 
when  he  walked,  the  man  limped  slightly.  He  had 
closely  cropped  hair." 

"Was  he  clean  shaven?"  Stanley  asked,  hurriedly. 

"No — he  wore  a  closely  cut  beard,  turning  gray," 
Vesta  answered.  "He  was  rather  an  unusual  type  and 
might  have  passed  for  a  man  of  the  artisan  class  who 
had  prospered." 

Waring's  mouth  set  in  a  grim  line  and  a  growing 
frown  deepened  on  his  usually  frank  face. 

Vesta  turned  from  the  task  of  description  to  a  his- 
tory of  the  day.  The  salient  facts,  as  they  emerged, 
were  two,  so  far  as  they  appealed  to  Stanley  Waring's 
mind.  According  to  Vesta's  recital  of  the  facts,  she 
had  set  out  for  the  village  about  twelve  and  had  seen 
the  strange  man  for  the  first  time  near  the  schoolhouse. 
Vesta  had  called  on  Mr.  Abraham,  the  estate  agent, 
who  had  explained  over  the  telephone  that  he  had  an 
inquiry  for  Wayside  Lodge,  and  would  like  the  key  so 
that  the  man  who  had  called  could  view.  She  had 
promised  this,  and  her  morning  visit  to  the  village 
had  been  taken  largely  for  the  purpose  of  delivering 
the  key.  On  returning  to  the  schoolhouse,  she  had 
noticed  the  stranger  again  in  the  village  street. 

The  odd  part  of  Vesta's  adventure  was  that  she  had 
set  out  for  her  usual  walk  in  the  afternoon  alone  about 
the  hour  of  three  o'clock  along  a  field  path  lead- 

145 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


ing  to  the  golf  links.  On  the  return  journey  she 
had  been  accosted  by  the  man  she  had  seen  outside 
Stanley  Waring's  home  about  the  hour  of  twelve 
o'clock. 

Vesta  was  not  able  to  give  the  whole  of  their  con- 
versation, but  her  mind  had  dwelt  on  the  details  and 
she  had  an  accurate  outline  of  its  substance. 

The  man  had  addressed  her  by  name  civilly  enough, 
and  she  had  stopped  to  speak  to  him.  He  began  by 
asking  her  several  roundabout  questions  relating  to 
the  murder  at  Wayside  Lodge,  and  she  had  at  once 
checked  him  by  stating  she  did  not  wish  to  discuss  a 
painful  matter  with  a  total  stranger. 

"And  what  did  he  reply?"  Waring  asked. 

"Why,  then  he  began  to  say  things  that  worried 
me,"  Vesta  answered,  speaking  rapidly.  "He  said 
there  were  some  things  in  life  we  had  to  discuss  with- 
out any  regard  for  our  feelings,  and  the  murder  of 
Paul  Copeland  was  one  of  them  so  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned. He  was  making  inquiries  into  the  tragedy, 
the  man  explained,  and  I  gathered  that  he  was  a  de- 
tective or  a  private  inquiry  agent." 

"What  line  did  his  questions  take?"  Waring  asked, 
an  edge  to  his  youthful  voice. 

"Well — I  told  him,  as  positively  as  I  could,  if  he  had 
any  inquiries  to  put  to  me,  he  might  ask  all  the  ques- 
tions he  liked,  but  only  at  the  proper  time  and  place. 
I  suggested  he  should  come  to  the  schoolhouse  and  see 
me  under  more  usual  circumstances,  instead  of  waylay- 
ing me  in  the  open.  I  refused  to  answer  any  further 
questions  unless  the  examination  took  place  at  home, 
in  the  presence  of  my  advisors." 

146 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Waring  nodded  slowly  as  he  heard  Vesta's  explana- 
tions. 

"Quite  right,"  he  said,  absently.  "Did  that  appear 
to  satisfy  him?"  he  asked,  looking  down  at  the  girl's 
earnest,  upturned  face. 

"No — I  became  just  a  little  frightened,"  she  said, 
her  eyes  brightening.  "The  little  man  seemed  angry, 
and  I  did  not  like  the  look  of  him.  He  began  to  say 
I  would  live  to  regret  my  action,  and  I  gathered  the 
impression  that  his  wprds  implied  I  knew  more  than 
I  was  prepared  to  tell.  I  did  not  like  the  way  he 
looked  at  me,  nor  the  tone  of  his  voice,  and  I  was  begin- 
ning to  feel  quite  scared.  And  then  he  said  something 
that  seemed  to  me  most  significant.  He  asked  me  if 
I  knew  anything  of  Paul  Copeland's  past  or  of  his 
enemies." 

"And  what  did  you  say?"  Waring  asked,  his  whole 
being  intent  on  the  girl's  words. 

"I  told  him  I  knew  no  more  than  I  said  at  the  in- 
quest." Here  the  girl  stopped  suddenly  and  looked  up 
at  Waring. 

"Did  he  accept  that?"  Waring  asked,  eagerly. 

"He  said  I  lied.  He  was  almost  violent  in  his  man- 
ner. He  said  something  about  secrets  in  my  father's 
past  and  that  someone  must  know  about  them.  He 
suggested  that  I  must  have  some  papers  throwing  light 
upon  what  Copeland  was  and  where  he  had  been." 

The  girl  paused  again  in  her  hurried  narrative. 

"And  then?"  Waring  prompted. 

"Why,  then  I  denied  any  knowledge  of  my  father, 
refused  to  continue  the  conversation  and  turned  on 
my  heel.  I  thought,  at  first,  the  man  was  going  to 

147 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


detain  me.  He  called  after  me,  and  began  to  walk 
rapidly  in  my  wake.  I  looked  round  and  saw  him 
coming.  I  noticed  he  did  not  limp  at  all.  I  was  so 
frightened  that  I  thought  of  running,  but  just  then 
a  man  and  a  woman  turned  into  the  field  path.  The 
man  saw  them  as  quickly  as  I  did,  and  stopped 
following  as  if  he  desired  to  overtake  me.  He  did 
not  seem  to  wish  to  attract  attention.  When  I 
reached  the  end  of  the  path  and  joined  the  road 
to  the  village  I  turned  round  and  saw  him  limping 
slowly  along,  as  I  had  seen  him  walk  early  this  morn- 
ing." 

"And  that  is  all  you  can  recall?"  Stanley  Waring 
asked. 

"Yes — as  near  as  I  can  remember  that  was  the  sub- 
stance of  the  matter,"  Vesta  answered. 

A  deep  silence  fell  between  the  two  for  some  minutes 
as  they  neared  the  schoolhouse. 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?"  Waring  said  at  last. 

"I  don't  know,"  the  girl  answered,  uneasily.  "There 
is  something  sinister,  ugly  and  disquieting  about  it  all. 
I  had  only  one  feeling,  an  instinctive  belief  that  this 
man  was  not  a  detective  and  had  no  right  to  stop  me 
and  put  the  questions  he  did." 

Waring  walked  along  in  moody  silence  for  some 
minutes.  He  saw  the  shadow  of  the  darker  life  into 
which  he  had  drifted  settling  about  the  girl.  He  now 
knew  he  could  not  hide  the  matter  from  Vesta  much 
longer,  or,  at  least,  he  must  share  sufficient  of  his 
knowledge  to  place  her  on  guard. 

"I  want  you  to  trust  me,"  he  said,  at  last,  and  very 
earnestly. 

148 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"Why,  Stanley,"  she  said,  her  voice  thrilling  him, 
"I  do  trust  you.  Surely  you  know  that." 

"I  want  you  to  trust  me  in  specific  matters,"  he 
said,  more  seriously.  "I  want  you  never  to  express 
an  opinion  about  your  father's  end  to  anyone  with- 
out consulting  me.  I  want  you  to  refuse  any  inter- 
view with  strangers  unless  I  am  present.  I  want  you 
not  to  leave  the  village  streets  or  to  travel  through 
any  lonely  thoroughfares  unless  I  am  with  you." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  saw  his  eager  eyes  fixed  on 
hers,  noted  the  anxiety  in  his  voice  and  the  concern  in 
his  face. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  slightly  smiling.  "I  am  afraid  I 
have  frightened  you  more  than  this  odd  little  monster 
frightened  me." 

There  was  no  answering  gleam  of  laughter  about  his 
set  features. 

"Promise  me,"  he  said. 

"Why,  yes,  dear;  if  you  think  it  is  necessary,  I  do 
promise,"  she  answered.  "But  why?" 

"Will  you  try  to  be  content  with  my  assurance  that 
it  is  necessary  you  should  do  as  I  suggest,  without  a 
reason?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  Vesta  answered,  simply.  "I  trust  you  in  all 
things — you  who  are  so  kind.  But  I  am  not  a  little 
child,  Stanley.  What  do  you  fear?  What  do  you 
know?" 

"I  do  not  want  you  to  know  what  I  fear,"  he  an- 
swered. "I  want  you  to  be  kept  outside  the  region  of 
my  fears.  But  I  know  there  is  danger  for  you — for 
me." 

"Where?"  Vesta  asked,  urgently. 
149 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


"I  want  you  to  be  content  with  this  one  statement. 
There  were  grave  secrets  in  your  father's  past.  He 
was  murdered  for  possession  of  those  secrets.  In  a 
day  or  two  I  may  be  able  to  tell  you  more.  But  I 
have  your  promise — you  will  not  leave  Missingham  or 
go  about  alone  in  quiet  places,  whatever  suggestion  is 
made  to  you,  without  consulting  me.  You  will  not 
see  any  stranger  unless  I  am  present." 

"But,  Stanley,  if  there  is  danger  to  you,  I  must 
know,"  she  began.  "All  the  danger,  if  it  exists,  comes 
through  me  to  you.  You  cannot  expect  me  to  be  con- 
tent with  a  warning  that  may  leave  me  safe,  but  will 
place  you  in  peril." 

"For  the  moment — I  do,"  he  answered.  "If  you 
trust  me,  you  will  believe  without  question  I  am  taking 
what  I  think  to  be  the  right  course.  I  have  several 
things  I  want  to  do  this  evening,  but  I'll  think  over 
this  matter  during  the  night,  and  see  how  far  I  can 
outline  this  danger — a  danger  I  know  to  exist,  though 
I  can,  as  yet,  only  guess  its  extent.  But  for  the  mo- 
ment trust  me  and  believe,  strange  as  my  action  is,  I 
ask  you  to  carry  out  my  wishes  in  your  own  interests 
alone." 

They  stood  outside  the  entry  to  the  schoolhouse, 
and  the  girl  impulsively  embraced  her  lover  in  silent 
assent. 

When  Stanley  Waring  had  seen  Vesta  safely  into 
his  own  house  he  at  once  left  and  walked  rapidly  to  the 
village. 

Two  thoughts  were  in  his  mind,  and  he  had  decided 
to  test  them  without  delay. 

A  light  was  burning  in  the  latticed  windows  of  John 
150 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Abraham's  office,  and  a  clerk  was  still  at  work  there. 

Stanley  strolled  in  and  quietly  engaged  the  attention 
of  the  house  agent's  clerk. 

"Miss  Copeland  desires  you  to  take  care  of  her 
property  in  showing  people  over  Wayside  Lodge,"  he 
suggested,  in  a  round-about  conversation.  "Some  of 
the  property  left  in  the  rooms  is  valuable." 

"But  there  is  nothing  lying  about,"  the  clerk  said. 
"I  saw  to  that  the  last  time  I  was  there.  Everything 
is  locked  up  that  Miss  Copeland  has  left." 

"I  thought  I  would  mention  the  matter,"  Waring 
suggested,  casually.  "I  hear  you  have  a  prospective 
tenant." 

"Yes,  he  came  and  took  the  key  at  noon." 

"Who  was  he — anyone  I  know?"  Waring  asked, 
carelessly. 

"No — stranger — London  address,"  the  clerk  an- 
swered. 

"Was  that  the  man  I  saw  in  the  village  street  this 
morning?"  Waring  asked,  betraying  no  acute  interest 
in  the  matter. 

"I  dunno,"  the  clerk  answered.  "Was  he  a  little 
bloke,  all  overcoat,  with  a  bit  of  gray  whisker  ?" 

"Yes — that  was  the  man,  I  think,"  Stanley  said, 
turning  away.  "Well,  just  keep  an  eye  on  Miss  Cope- 
land's  property,  in  any  case,"  he  added,  still  more 
casually. 

Waring  stepped  out  of  the  office,  and,  once  in  the 
street,  walked  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the  Black 
Lion. 

His  manner,  as  he  entered  the  lounge,  was  more 
restful,  and  he  advanced  on  Broadleigh,  who  stood 

151 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


warming  himself  complacently  before  his  own  fire,  in 
the  professional,  expectant  manner. 

"Well — how  is  my  patient  faring  to-night?"  he 
asked.  "I  thought  I  would  drop  in,  as  I  was  passing." 

Broadleigh  looked  up  with  a  frown.  A  country 
hotelkeeper  does  not  lose  profitable  paying  guests  in 
midwinter  without  a  qualm. 

"Why,  don't  you  know?"  Broadleigh  asked,  with 
some  surprise  in  his  voice. 

"Know  what?"  asked  Waring. 

"They've  gone — first  thing  this  morning,"  Broad- 
leigh answered,  irritation  in  his  voice.  "Mr.  Gaythorne 
grumbled  at  his  breakfast  and  then  said  Missingham 
was  so  quiet  that  if  he  stayed  another  day  in  the  place 
he'd  go  mad.  So  he  had  his  bill  and  drove  off  before 
ten  o'clock.  Some  people  in  this  world  are  never  satis- 
fied," Isaac  Broadleigh  added,  with  a  profound  sigh,  as 
he  looked  solemnly  into  the  fire. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

SOUND  reasoning  was  at  the  base  of  Stanley  War- 
ing's  immediate  actions  when  he  found  both  Gay- 
thorne   and   the   chauffeur  had  left  the   Black 
Lion — reason  and  infinite  patience. 

Thus  he  explained  the  possibilities  of  the  situation 
to  himself.  Gaythorne  had  taken  quarters  at  the  Black 
Lion  to  find  out  where  Copeland  had  left  his  papers. 
A  first  step  had  been  to  see  Waring,  the  only  man 
who  had  any  apparent  intimacy  with  Copeland  and  the 
man  who  discovered  the  body.  Plainly,  on  the  night 
of  the  murder,  the  thieves  had  not  found  what  they 
wanted,  nor  were  they  sure  of  their  ground.  Gay- 
thorne's  first  need  was  to  locate  the  clew  to  the  hidden 
treasure  and  his  first  step  had  been  as  close  to  a  cross- 
examination  of  Waring  as  he  had  dared  to  go.  Was 
he  satisfied  with  that  meeting? 

Waring  concluded  that  Gaythorne  was  in  some  de- 
gree satisfied.  If  the  stranger  at  the  Black  Lion  felt 
there  was  anything  further  to  gain  by  another  meeting, 
Waring  argued  he  would  have  remained  and  devised 
"ome  excuse  for  a  second  interview.  Plainly,  Gay- 
thorne's  flight  indicated  he  had  abandoned  further  in- 
quiry on  the  lines  laid  down.  But  the  problem  re- 
mained uppermost  in  Waring's  mind — what  had  caused 
Gaythorne  to  move  on.  Any  one  of  four  reasons 
might  have  caused  him  to  move.  Gaythorne  might 
have  decided  Waring  had  the  information  he  wanted. 

153 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Or  he  might  have  concluded  that  the  information  did 
not  exist.  Again,  Gaythorne  would  consider  the  pos- 
sibility of  the  clews  having  changed  hands,  leaving 
either  Copeland  or  Waring.  And,  last,  the  thieves 
might  still  hope  to  find  the  clews  at  Wayside  Lodge. 
The  last  probability  was  the  one  chiefly  influencing 
Waring's  mind  as  he  thought  the  matter  over. 

There  was  no  answer  to  these  questions  beyond 
waiting  and  watching.  Gaythorne  would  reveal  him- 
self to  Waring,  if  he  thought  the  young  doctor  held 
the  clews,  and  he  would  not  pursue  a  third  party,  ac- 
cording to  Waring's  reasoning,  without  learning  some- 
thing definite  about  the  extent  of  Waring's  knowledge. 
There  was  only  one  channel  along  which  he  could  make 
further  investigation  without  Waring's  knowledge — at 
Wayside  Lodge.  Thus  far  Waring's  reasoning  took 
him  as  he  carefully  thought  the  situation  out.  The 
next  move  would  be  to  search  Wayside  Lodge  again — a 
conclusion  supported  by  the  incident  of  the  afternoon. 
Whoever  was  the  man  who  masqueraded  first  as  a  de- 
tective and  then  as  a  househunter,  he  was  an  emissary 
of  the  Red  Colonel's  and — he  had  the  key  to  Wayside 
Lodge. 

The  dinner  party  at  the  schoolhouse  was  a  very  quiet 
one.  Dr.  Waring,  the  elder,  had  gone  to  the  county 
town  and  had  not  returned.  Mrs.  Waring  chattered 
in  a  desultory  fashion.  Vesta  did  her  share  toward 
keeping  the  conversation  going,  but  the  incidents  of 
the  afternoon  and  Waring's  strange  words  still  weighed 
upon  her  mind.  Waring  was  busy  with  his  own 
thoughts. 

The  hour  was  eight  and  the  evening  meal  was  over. 
154 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Stanley  Waring  went  to  his  room,  put  on  a  rough  suit 
of  tweeds,  and  stuffed  a  small  Smith  and  Wesson  re- 
volver into  his  coat  pocket. 

When  he  came  down  he  met  Vesta  in  the  hall. 

"Going  out?"  she  asked,  perhaps  a  shade  disap- 
pointed. 

"Yes,"  he  replied ;  "do  not  wait  up.  I  may  be  late. 
You  have  other  keys  to  Wayside  Lodge?"  he  asked. 

"Yes — three,"   the  girl  answered,  surprised. 

"Then  you  might  lend  me  the  key  to  the  kitchen 
door,"  he  suggested. 

"You  are  going  there  to-night?"  the  girl  asked, 
slightly  paling.  "Your  visit  has  some  relationship  to 
the  danger  you  hinted  at  this  afternoon." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  soberly. 

"You  must  go  into  this  danger?"  Vesta  asked,  wist- 
fully. 

"Yes — I  want  you  to  be  silent  about  the  matter. 
And  do  not  be  anxious — there  is  no  danger  to-night. 
Several  things  are  puzzling  me.  I  want  to  have  a  good 
look  at  the  Lodge  without  being  interrupted.  I  think 
it  will  help." 

"You  are  sure  there  is  no  danger?"  Vesta  asked. 
"You  have  made  me  feel  very  anxious." 

"Quite  sure — I  am  perfectly  safe,  sweetheart,"  he 
answered,  heartily  enough,  smiling  grimly  as  his  fin- 
gers closed  on  the  weapon  in  his  pocket.  "Do  not 
worry  and,  if  I  am  late,  don't  lose  any  beauty  sleep 
by  sitting  up.  And  if  any  one  asks  for  me,  say  nothing 
definite.  Just  suggest  you  think  I  said  something 
about  going  to  a  whist  party." 

Stanley  Waring  set  out,  leaving  Vesta  very  puzzled 
155 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


and  not  a  little  uneasy.  The  hour  was  about  eight- 
fifteen.  The  night  was  fine,  not  too  cold,  with  a  new 
moon.  He  walked  rapidly  down  the  main  road  until 
well  out  of  the  village,  glancing  round  frequently  to 
see  that  he  was  not  followed.  By  making  a  detour 
of  about  a  mile  and  a  half,  he  was  able  to  approach 
Wayside  Lodge  along  the  road  leading  to  the  village, 
instead  of  away  from  it.  When  he  reached  the  long 
road,  in  which  there  were  but  few  homesteads,  and  those 
widely  scattered,  he  stood  for  a  full  five  minutes  wait- 
ing and  listening.  Then,  as  quickly  as  possible,  he 
walked  toward  the  house,  mounted  a  gate,  stepped 
through  a  paddock  and  so  came  upon  the  Lodge 
through  a  plantation  bringing  him  to  the  lawn  upon 
the  side  furthest  from  the  road. 

Not  a  soul  was  stirring.  Silent,  motionless  as  an 
Indian  hunter,  Waring  stood  in  the  orchard.  No 
sound  of  human  presence  reached  his  ears;  only  the 
gentle  sigh  of  the  wind  among  the  branches  or  the 
rustling  of  a  handful  of  dead  leaves  in  the  grass. 
Creeping  through  the  kitchen  garden,  Waring  reached 
the  door  and  entered  the  house.  The  place  was  silent 
as  the  grave.  By  the  light  of  the  moon,  as  he  walked 
through  the  rooms,  they  seemed  to  him  much  as  they 
had  been  left  after  the  police  had  given  him  per- 
mission to  take  away  Vesta's  personal  property 
or  lock  it  up.  Windows  and  doors  were  closed  and 
none  of  the  locked  furniture  appeared  to  have  been 
disturbed. 

Waring  left  the  house  by  the  door  he  had  entered. 
Cautiously,  he  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  gable  over- 
looking the  lawn,  and  remained  there  for  several  min- 

156 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


utes.  Not  a  sound  of  human  movement  reached  him 
from  the  road. 

As  he  remained,  standing  in  the  darkness,  Stanley 
Waring  realized  why  he  was  there  alone.  Some  one 
had  the  key  of  Wayside  Lodge,  and  he  believed  the 
man  who  had  the  key  would  visit  the  house  during 
the  night.  Waring  had  made  up  his  mind  to  stop  and 
watch  the  room  where  Copeland  maintained  his  last 
vigil.  Instinct  held  him  chained  to  the  spot.  He  be- 
lieved something  would  happen  at  Wayside  Lodge  that 
night,  something  to  help  in  the  peril  of  his  surround- 
ings. 

Often  he  doubted  the  wisdom  of  his  project.  Stand- 
ing in  the  silence,  minute  after  minute,  is  no  cheerful 
occupation  for  an  active,  high-strung  man.  Nine 
o'clock  chimed,  and  then,  at  intervals  of  a  year  it 
seemed,  each  quarter  of  an  hour  was  sounded  by  the 
village  clock.  Now  and  again  footsteps  would  ring 
on  the  highway.  A  couple  of  whispering  lovers  walked 
slowly  by;  Waring  could  hear  the  girl's  lazy,  con- 
tented laughter.  Again  a  gang  of  youths  would  march 
past,  whistling  bravely,  their  footsteps  in  time  and  fall- 
ing with  the  regular  beat  of  marching  soldiers.  Or  an 
irregular  footstep  would  be  heard — surely  the  progress 
of  some  half-intoxicated  villager.  Then  the  sounds 
would  die  away  into  an  appalling,  listening  silence — a 
silence  in  which  nature  became  strangely  articulate. 
Little  noises  of  the  night  asserted  themselves;  some- 
thing creaking  in  the  grasses,  a  strange  bat-like  flut- 
tering in  the  air,  the  rustle  of  a  moving  leaf,  the  far- 
off  hooting  of  an  owl,  the  distant  bark  of  a  dog.  Ten 
o'clock  struck.  Again  the  quarters  went  by  slowly,  the 

157 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


public  clock  marking  them  out  by  its  chimes,  and  still 
Stanley  Waring  remained,  doggedly,  in  the  shadow — 
waiting  for  he  knew  not  what. 

Eleven  o'clock — long  drawn  out,  with  the  full  chimes 
of  the  clock  and  the  long,  slow  toll  of  the  counting 
bell. 

"Pshaw,"  Waring  said.  "Of  all  fools'  errands,  this 
is  one." 

Still  he  remained  motionless  in  the  shadow. 

The  quarter  after  eleven  had  gone.  Relaxing  some- 
what, Waring  was  getting  impatient  and  even  a  little 
irritable.  But  his  will  could  not  override  his  instinct. 
He  found  it  impossible  to  move  away  from  the  lonely 
house.  As  if  to  justify  the  man's  instinct,  he  heard  a 
new  footfall  on  the  road.  The  pedestrian  making  the 
approach  must  have  been  hundreds  of  yards  away  when 
Waring*s  acute  hearing  realized  his  coming.  And  the 
moment  he  heard  the  sound  some  instinct  told  Waring 
he  had  not  waited  in  vain.  Listening,  in  the  silence 
and  the  darkness,  Waring's  hearing  had  grown  sensi- 
tive. Something  furtive,  hesitating,  cautious  in  the 
very  sound  of  the  footsteps  told  him  the  man  who  stole 
rapidly  along  the  road  was  no  ordinary  wayfarer. 
Waring  drew  back  deeper  into  the  shadows. 

Nor  had  he  long  to  wait  for  confirmation.  The  foot- 
steps came  on,  and  stopped  suddenly  as  they  ap- 
proached the  grounds  of  Wayside  Lodge.  There  was  a 
thrilling  pause,  and  then  Waring  heard  the  noises  a 
man  might  make  while  awkwardly  climbing  a  strange 
fence. 

In  a  hot  wave  of  exultation,  Waring,  watching 
closely,  saw  a  figure  emerge  from  the  bushes  and  slowly 

158 


THE   BED   COLONEL 


cross  the  center  of  the  lawn  toward  the  house.  In  the 
faint  light  of  the  moon  Waring  could  see  the  man's 
bulk,  but  no  detail.  He  was  strangely  reminiscent,  so 
far  as  stature  was  concerned,  of  the  man — Gaythorne's 
chauffeur — who  had  followed  Waring  to  the  station 
that  morning. 

Making  little  sound,  the  newcomer  did  not  hesitate 
as  he  crossed  the  lawn,  nor  did  he  stop  to  look  at  the 
house.  He  was  the  man  with  the  key — that  was  obvi- 
ous, for  Waring  saw  him  walk  by  the  side  of  the  house 
to  the  main  entrance,  heard  him  turn  the  lock,  open  the 
door  and  close  it  behind  him,  with  a  faint  bang.  After- 
ward the  sound  of  footsteps  traversing  the  stone  floor 
was  easily  distinguishable.  Standing  in  the  garden, 
Waring  could  trace  the  stranger's  progress  from  room 
to  room  by  the  noise  he  made,  until  at  last  he  reached 
the  room  looking  on  the  balcony,  having  apparently 
made  a  search  by  the  way. 

Stanley  Waring  did  not  seek  to  watch  the  man's 
movements.  He  knew  the  lure  drawing  the  stranger 
to  the  scene  of  Paul  Copeland's  death  was  not  there, 
but  in  his  own  possession.  He  could  hear  the  man, 
tramping  about  the  room,  the  sound  of  drawers  being 
pulled  out,  the  breaking  of  woodwork  and,  now  and 
again,  the  forcing  of  a  lock.  The  study  leading  to  the 
balcony  was  not  illuminated,  but  occasionally  Waring 
could  see  a  moving  beam  of  light.  Whoever  was  in 
the  room  was  searching  thoroughly  with  the  aid  of  a 
dark  lantern. 

Stanley  remained,  wondering  what  his  obvious  course 
of  action  should  be.  Instinct  bade  him  to  pounce  upon 
the  man  who  worked  like  a  mole  in  the  darkened  room 

159 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


where  Copeland  had  ended  his  unworthy  life.  Reason 
prompted  Waring  to  hold  his  hand — to  watch  and  wait. 
Fate  plays  a  part  in  most  men's  lives.  The  conditions 
alter  to  the  trick  of  circumstances,  the  influence  mak- 
ing or  marring  a  situation  being  that  which  common 
men  call  luck  or  ill-luck.  Waring  had  the  feeling  that 
the  events  of  the  night  had  passed  out  of  his  control. 
He  was  just  guessing  in  the  dark,  and  believing  that 
Fate  would  order  his  judgment.  He  remained,  still 
and  quiet  in  the  shadow,  watching  the  gleam  of  light 
from  the  lantern  as  it  flitted  across  the  room,  leaving 
the  moment  to  guide  him  in  any  action  he  might  take, 
as  it  arose. 

Waring  did  not  know  how  many  minutes  he  waited 
there  in  the  deserted  garden.  The  interval  seemed  an 
eternity.  He  stood  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  balcony 
watching  the  moving  light — no  other  thought  in  his 
mind.  He  knew  he  was  waiting  to  see  the  face  of  the 
man  who  searched  Paul  Copeland's  study,  and  that  was. 
all.  He  was  content  to  remain  there  fascinated,  hisi 
eyes  fixed  on  the  windows,  his  ears  appraising  every 
sound,  his  brain  trying  to  reconstruct  the  action  from 
the  noises  made.  Waring  had  forgotten  everything 
outside  the  house.  His  thoughts  were  concentrated  on 
the  movements  of  the  man  who  searched  for  the  key  to 
Copeland's  treasure. 

Without  warning,  he  was  recalled  to  the  outside 
world  in  which  he  stood. 

A  sudden  whistling,  so  near  it  seemed  to  be  at  his 
elbow,  almost  startled  Waring  into  an  indiscretion. 

The  sound  of  it  seemed  to  freeze  the  blood  in  his 
veins.  The  liquid  notes,  round  and  clear,  piped  the 

160 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


call  he  had  heard  on  the  night  of  Paul  Copeland's 
death. 

By  a  great  effort  of  will  Waring  refrained  from 
moving,  but  his  glance  traveled  from  the  balcony  to 
the  lawn. 

There,  in  the  center,  shown  up  by  what  little  light 
there  was,  stood  the  figure  of  a  man. 

As  far  as  Waring  could  see,  he  was  tall  and  heavy. 
The  line  of  his  torso,  against  the  gray  darkness, 
showed  that  he  wore  a  close  fitting- jersey.  His  legs 
were  clad  in  white  duck  trousers.  He  was  such  a  figure 
as  Isaac  Broadleigh  had  described  as  passing  through 
the  village  street  the  day  Copeland  died ;  as  Vesta  had 
seen  walking  along  the  highroad  to  Wayside  Lodge. 
He  stood,  roughly  outlined,  as  still  as  a  statue,  his 
glance  directed  up  at  the  balcony  window. 

Even  as  Waring  realized  the  presence  of  a  second 
visitor,  the  whistled  signal  was  repeated. 

Its  effect  on  the  man  inside  was  rather  surprising. 
The  gleam  of  light  from  the  lantern  was  suddenly  im- 
prisoned and  the  room  above  was  plunged  into  total 
darkness.  Followed  a  long,  still,  breathless  pause. 
Then,  again,  the  sinister  whistled  bar  of  music  struck 
the  still  night  air,  round  and  soft,  but  eerie  and  in- 
sistent. 

The  balcony  window  opened.  The  head  and  shoul- 
ders of  a  man  slowly  appeared  above  the  wooden  rail- 
ing. The  voice  that  spoke  wavered. 

"Who  is  there?"  the  man  above  called. 

"Who  should  be  here?"  the  man  on  the  lawn  an- 
swered. "You  heard  the  summons.  The  Red  Colonel 
called.  Why  did  you  not  obey  at  once?" 

161  " 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


The  other  mumbled  an  answer,  the  words  being 
meaningless  to  Waring. 

The  man  on  the  lawn  walked  quickly  to  the  balcony. 
He  stood  on  the  gravel  path,  looking  up  at  the  man 
who  peered  down  from  the  balcony. 

"That's  Cunning,  isn't  it?"  the  Red  Colonel  shouted. 

"Yes."  The  word  was  spoken  by  the  man  above  as 
if  he  were  being  slowly  strangled. 

"And  this  is  how  you  serve  me,"  the  Red  Colonel 
answered.  "By  the  living  God,  you  double  on  me,"  the 
voice  continued,  each  word  hissing  a  passionate  threat. 
"Pray,  Cunning — pray  for  your  soul.  I'm  coming  up 
and  you  stand  within  the  shadow  of  the  little  cross." 

With  lithe,  easy  movements,  the  man  on  the  lawn 
began  to  swarm  up  the  supports  until  he  reached  the 
balcony,  and  stood  beside  the  man  called  Cunning, 
who  was  crouching  near  the  open  window. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

WAKING'S  heart  beat  rapidly  as  he  heard  the 
second  man  speak,  for  there  was  no  mistak- 
ing the  voice.  Though  the  man  was  vastly 
different  in  appearance  so  far  as  the  light  permitted 
Waring  to  observe,  the  speaker  was  certainly  his  late 
patient — Gaythorne,  the  visitor  who  had  suddenly  left 
the  Black  Lion  Hotel  that  morning. 

As  the  man  walked  nearer  to  Waring  for  the  pur- 
pose of  climbing  the  balcony,  the  latter  could  see  he 
had  completely  altered  his  personal  appearance. 

The  rough  clothes  of  the  begging  sailor  were  in 
themselves  a  sufficient  disguise.  The  cap  with  the 
glazed  peak  shielded  half  the  face.  A  cunning  treat- 
ment of  Gaythorne's  characteristic  moustache  had  al- 
tered his  whole  expression.  Gaythorne  had  trained  his 
moustache  upward  in  the  German  manner;  the  man  on 
the  lawn  had  left  that  feature  to  droop  untrained, 
doubtless  to  hide  the  jutting  lower  lip  and  much  of 
what  was  most  characteristic  about  Gaythorne's  facial 
appearance. 

The  voice,  however,  was  not  disguised.  Different  as 
the  man  was  from  Gaythorne,  the  voice  revealed  the 
same  personality. 

Waring's  first  impression  of  exceptional  activity  and 
physical  strength  was  also  borne  out  by  the  way  Gay- 
thorne climbed  up  the  balcony.  He  swarmed  the  sup- 
ports and  dropped  over  the  railing  as  nimbly  as  a  cat 

163 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


and  as  cleverly  as  a  monkey,  and  was  by  the  side  of 
the  man  he  called  Cunning  with  startling  rapidity. 

Stanley  Waring  was  not  prepared  for  what  imme- 
diately followed,  and  incident  followed  incident  so 
quickly  that  only  after  the  events  was  Stanley  Waring 
able  to  piece  them  into  a  connected  narrative. 

From  what  he  could  see,  and  more  through  the  words 
he  could  hear,  Waring  gathered  that  the  appearance  of 
the  second  man  was  rather  a  surprising  incident  to 
Cunning.  There  was  no  doubt  about  one  fact — they 
were  not  acting  together.  Their  interests  in  being 
there  were  antagonistic. 

Overhead  on  the  balcony  a  voice  snapped. 

"Put  down  the  gun,"  Gaythorne  commanded.  "Put 
it  down,  I  say." 

"Then  don't  come  nearer  to  me,"  Cunning's  voice 
replied  with  a  shake  in  it. 

Stanley  could  see  the  two  figures,  three  yards  apart. 
Cunning  was  evidently  holding  Gaythorne  off  at  the 
point  of  a  revolver. 

"Put  down  that  gun,  I  say,"  Gaythorne  commanded. 

"I  know  your  game,  Colonel,"  the  weaker  voice  re- 
plied. "I  don't  stand  here  and  let  you  come  nearer. 
You  played  the  cross  on  me.  I  have  tried  to  put  the 
same  game  over.  Stand  back." 

The  last  words  were  spoken  hurriedly,  as  if  the  man 
were  in  some  fear,  as  he  had  need  to  be. 

Gaythorne  had  jumped  the  interval  of  space  between 
them  with  the  speed  of  a  wild  animal  springing  on  its 
prey.  In  two  steps  and  almost  as  quickly  as  the  eye 
could  follow  the  movement,  he  was  on  the  man,  Cun- 
ning. Stanley  heard  a  curious,  shuddering  sob,  a 

164, 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


smothered  oath,  and  then  a  sharp  cry  of  pain.  Some- 
thing hurtled  in  the  air  and  a  revolver  fell  almost  at 
the  feet  of  Waring. 

Neither  of  the  two  men  looked  in  the  direction  of  the 
falling  weapon. 

"Now,  you  dog,"  growled  Gaythorne.  "What  do 
you  mean  by  turning  your  gun  on  me  ?" 

The  other  did  not  answer. 

"Have  you  any  more  barkers  about  you?"  Gay- 
thorne asked.  There  was  an  interval  of  silence  in 
which  the  bigger  man  seemed  to  be  searching  the  other. 
"No — God  help  you.  Now,  get  inside,  I  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

The  smaller  man  shuffled  through  the  open  double 
doors,  the  larger  man  following  him  with  the  lantern. 
They  went  into  the  room,  leaving  the  doors  open.  By 
backing  a  little  on  the  lawn  in  the  darkness  Stanley 
could  see  they  were  sitting  one  on  each  side  of  a  table. 
The  lantern,  with  the  unclosed  shutter,  was  so  set  be- 
tween the  two  men  that  its  one  shaft  of  light  outlined 
the  face  of  the  man  Cunning. 

By  the  light  Waring  was  able  to  verify  his  first  sur- 
mise. Cunning  was  Gaythorne's  chauffeur  and  the  man 
who  had  stopped  Vesta  Copeland  during  the  afternoon. 
He  had  changed  his  appearance  by  adopting  a  care- 
ful disguise.  Cunning  still  wore  the  soft  tweed  hat 
Vesta  had  described.  About  a  face  Waring  had  no- 
ticed was  clean  shaved  in  the  morning  was  a  closely 
cut  beard,  evidently  false.  He  looked  in  this  disguise 
as  Vesta  had  described  him — a  man  of  the  artisan  type., 

The  painful,  fascinating  feature  of  the  man's  ap- 
pearance was  the  state  of  terror  he  was  in,  a  panic 

165 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


no  disguise  could  hide.  As  Cunning  sat  in  the  light, 
abject  fear  appeared  upon  every  line  of  his  face.  His 
eyes  were  staring  and  the  pupils  were  wildly  dilated. 
His  face  was  a  dull  red,  the  veins  on  the  forehead  swell- 
ing. The  mouth  was  open  as  if  terror,  acting  upon  the 
heart,  were  suffocating  him  and  making  it  difficult  for 
the  man  to  breathe.  As  he  confronted  his  chief,  some- 
times he  would  move  a  shaking  hand  about  his  face,  a 
nervous  action  of  which  he  was  scarcely  aware.  The 
trembling  fingers  plucked  at  his  own  ears  and  lips  and 
sometimes  upon  the  beard,  patches  of  the  hair  coming 
away  between  the  claw-like  digits. 

They  were  speaking  again  and  Waring  noticed  the 
face  in  the  light  grew  more  terrified  with  every  word 
the  other  man  said.  All  Waring  could  see  of  Gaythorne 
was  a  dark  outline  outside  the  circle  of  light — a  big, 
menacing  shadow.  Strangely  excited,  Waring  wanted 
to  watch  the  drama  spreading  such  obvious  terror  over 
Cunning's  mind  as  it  developed,  but  he  had  to  choose 
between  seeing  and  hearing.  He  crept  closer  to  the 
house  and  stood  in  the  darkness  beneath  the  balcony 
and  under  the  open  windows. 

Some  of  the  talk  he  could  not  make  out.  Other 
words,  whispered  or  mumbled,  drifted  away  from  War- 
ing's  hearing  or  were  too  faint  to  reach  it.  But,  from 
the  conversation  he  did  hear,  Waring  realized  his  guess 
was  right,  the  two  men  were  quarreling  and  antagonis- 
tic, while  every  word  Gaythorne  spoke  had  menace  be- 
hind it,  either  direct  or  indirect. 

"I  gave  you  your  job — why  didn't  you  do  it?"  he 
was  saying. 

Cunning  did  not  reply. 

166 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"You  were  to  watch  the  girl  and  wait  for  news  of 
the  man — to  keep  your  eye  on  him  when  he  came  back. 
Where  is  this  man  Waring  now?" 

"I  don't  know,"  the  chauffeur  answered  sulkily. 

"No — and  you  leave  him  to  go  about  at  his  own 
sweet  will  and  we  do  not  know  that  he  hasn't  a  line  on 
us  this  minute,"  Gaythorne  urged  angrily.  "You  play 
your  own  game,  and  you  try  to  put  the  cross  on  me. 
Why?" 

The  face  of  Cunning  worked  nervously  in  the  light, 
but  he  made  no  answer. 

"You — you  stick  a  gun  into  my  face,"  Gaythorne 
went  on  furiously.  "You  have  the  nerve  to  attempt 
that  on  me  when  I  could  crush  you  with  a  word.  Why 
have  you  gone  back  on  me  and  the  Warbler  ?  I  suppose 
you  thought  while  I  was  out  of  the  road  looked  a  good 
time  for  you  to  get  a  line  on  old  Copeland's  fortune. 
I  suppose  if  it  had  come  off  you  would  have  disap- 
peared as  Copeland  did,  either  giving  us  away  to  make 
yourself  safe,  or  lighting  out  and  leaving  us  to  trail 
you  as  we  did  Copeland.  Well,  you  haven't  got  away 
with  that  horse.  There's  nothing  doing  for  you.  I 
have  you  by  the  heels." 

"On  my  honor!"  the  other  man  answered.  "I  was 
not  playing  cross.  I  wasn't,  on  my  honor.  I'd  got  the 
key.  I  thought  it  was  up  to  me  to  go  through  the 
house  while  I  had  the  chance.  I  fancied  I  could  have 
made  better  terms  with  you  if  I  had  obtained  the 
papers.  If  I  may  die,  that's  what  I  thought." 

"Bah! — you  thought,"  the  Red  Colonel  stormed. 
"You  know  the  rule.  I  do  the  thinking.  You  move 
when  I  give  the  say  so.  You  stop  when  I  call  a  halt. 

167 


THE    RED    COLONEL 


You  broke  the  rule.  You  were  out  for  yourself  and 
precious  little  we  should  have  seen  of  the  game  if  I 
hadn't  held  the  odd  trick.  A  man  has  to  rise  early 
who  puts  the  double  on  me,  I  tell  you." 

"Well — damn  you — you  doubled  on  me,"  Cunning 
said  desperately.  "What  if  I  am  out  for  myself!  I 
am  no  different  from  you  or  the  Warbler.  Since  we 
did  the  ten  stretch  none  of  us  have  been  playing  the 
game.  We  don't  trust  each  other  since  Copeland 
smashed  us.  The  very  night  you  put  him  out  here 
you  fixed  the  murder  on  me.  Who  left  the  three-fin- 
gered print — you  devil." 

The  Red  Colonel  laughed.  There  was  a  cal- 
lous, cruel  quality  about  his  laughter  and  no  mirth 
in  it. 

"Ha !  ha !"  he  laughed.  "That's  the  lay  of  it.  You 
own  up.  Well,  you  might  as  well,  because  I  have  you 
worked  out  and  know  where  you  stand.  I'd  been  watch- 
ing you.  I  knew  you  were  hedging  on  this  game  and 
I  had  to  fix  you  when  I  felt  you'd  be  safe." 

"And,  by  God!  you  did,"  the  other  man  answered. 
"A  word  from  you  and  I'm  the  only  man  who  will 
swing  for  Copeland,"  Cunning  said,  a  shake  in  his 
voice.  "It  makes  me  shiver  with  fright  when  I  think 
of  that  mark  of  the  three-fingered  hand  on  the  bank- 
note." 

"Yes — you  dog;  you  have  it  right,"  Gaythorne  re- 
plied. "And  it  is  well  we  understand  each  other.  What 
have  you  got  out  of  the  search?" 

"Nothing,"  the  sulky  voice  of  the  driver  answered. 

"Ah !"  grunted  the  Red  Colonel  doubtfully. 

There  was  a  silence  of  some  minutes  and  Waring 
168 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


guessed  it  was  filled  by  a  quick  survey  of  the  room  by 
Gaythorne. 

Waring,  crouching  under  the  balcony,  waited  on  to 
hear  more.  The  conversation,  little  as  it  was,  had 
cleared  up  one  doubt  in  his  mind.  Two  men  had  been 
present  at  the  murder  of  Paul  Copeland.  He  re- 
mained, hoping  chance  would  set  the  men  talking  again, 
and  even  lead  them  to  betray  the  circles  in  which  they 
moved.  He  did  not  attempt  to  watch  the  two  men,  so 
keen  was  he  on  hearing  what  they  had  to  say,  though 
he  heard  their  movements. 

The  silence  remained  unbroken  for  several  min- 
utes, and  then  was  only  disturbed  by  a  shuddering, 
gasping  sound.  To  Waring  it  seemed  as  if  Cunning 
were  giving  expression  to  his  own  fear  in  hysterical 
sobs. 

Following,  Waring  heard  the  noise  of  hasty  move- 
ments once  more,  occasionally  the  banging  of  a  door 
and  the  sounds  of  drawers  being  opened  and  shut.  No 
further  words  were  spoken  between  the  two  men.  The 
silence  they  maintained  had  a  sinister  quality  and  War- 
ing grew  restless  with  impatience.  He  was  just  going 
to  move  away  from  the  balcony  and  indeed  had  stepped 
from  underneath  it  into  the  shadow  of  the  house  with 
the  view  of  working  his  way  to  the  lawn  for  the  pur- 
pose of  watching  rather  than  hearing  when  a  footstep 
sounded  on  the  planks  above. 

Looking  up,  Waring  saw  the  man  he  knew  as  Gay- 
thorne, the  man  in  the  sailor  habit.  A  big,  threatening 
figure,  he  stood  in  the  open  windows,  listening.  War- 
ing saw  him  poised  there  for  a  few  seconds.  Then, 
with  a  stealthy  cat-like  spring,  he  was  over  the  railings 

169 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


and  had  slipped  down  the  poles  and  dropped  on  to  the 
gravel  path. 

Waring  was  so  surprised  by  this  unexpected  move 
that  he  had  no  time  to  think.  Involuntarily  he  pressed 
further  back  into  the  gloom  of  the  favoring  walls  and, 
before  he  could  recover,  the  man  who  had  left  the  bal- 
cony was  walking  away  from  the  house  across  the  lawn. 

Waring's  first  impulse  was  to  follow,  and  he  was 
about  to  move  stealthily  in  the  wake  of  the  vanishing 
figure,  when  he  remembered  the  second  man — Cunning. 
At  any  moment  he  might  follow  his  leader.  Waring 
pressed  himself  back  to  the  wall,  and  his  eyes  were 
fixed  expectantly  on  the  balcony.  Along  the  road  he 
heard  a  motor  car  suddenly  clatter  as  some  one  started 
the  engine,  and  then,  with  a  purr,  it  glided  away  in  the 
direction  of  the  village. 

But  no  one  emerged  from  the  room  above  the  bal- 
cony. 

Minute  by  minute  went  by  and  the  man  above  made 
no  sound,  either  by  movement  or  voice.  The  silence  of 
the  room  with  the  open  door  became,  to  Stanley  War- 
ing's  mind,  something  appalling — the  place  itself 
dreadful  with  the  growth  of  tragic  mystery.  The  Red 
Colonel  had  gone  stealthily  across  the  lawn;  the  other 
man,  his  frightened  tool,  remained  motionless  in  the 
room  above. 

Waring  rushed  across  the  lawn  and  looked  up  and 
down  the  lonely  road.  No  one  was  moving  upon  it. 
Without  further  hesitation  he  returned  to  the  lawn 
and  from  beneath  the  trees  whistled  as  nearly  as  he 
could  imitate  the  bar  of  music  he  had  heard  the  Red 
Colonel  use  as  a  signal. 

170 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


He  remained,  watching  the  open  window,  but  no  re- 
sponse was  made  to  the  signal,  although  he  gave  it 
again,  and  waited  another  half  minute. 

Making  up  his  mind,  Waring  swarmed  up  the  posts 
and  reached  the  balcony.  With  heart  beating  rapidly 
he  peered  into  the  mysterious  room. 

What  met  his  eyes  was  so  horrible  that  Stanley  War- 
ing reeled  with  the  shock  of  it,  and  when  he  looked 
again  his  teeth  were  chattering,  not  with  terror,  but 
through  an  overwhelming  sense  of  physical  repugnance. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

IN  the  room  left  by  Gaythorne  his  henchman,  Cun- 
ning, still  remained. 
The  dark  lantern  was  standing  upon  the  seat 
of  a  chair.     The  single  shaft  of  light  from  the  ball's- 
eye  was  projected  full  upon  the  face  of  the  man  who 
lay  upon  the  floor. 

As  Waring  had  listened  for  the  conversation  to  be  re- 
sumed, Cunning  had  been  murdered  with  swift,  silent 
ruthlessness  that  explained  the  fear  upon  his  face,  as 
he  had  sat  opposite  the  Red  Colonel. 

To  Waring,  who  attempted  to  reconstruct  this 
further  crime,  it  seemed  Gaythorne  must  have  turned 
from  Cunning  to  the  task  of  searching  the  room  and 
come  to  the  conclusion  as  he  moved  about  that  the  man 
was  dangerous  to  his  further  enterprises. 

Pretending  to  be  occupied  with  the  papers  littered 
about  the  room,  Gaythorne  must  have  sprung  from 
behind  Cunning  straight  on  to  'his  man,  pinning  him 
by  the  throat.  At  all  events,  Cunning  had  met  his 
death  by  strangulation.  The  murdered  man's  face  re- 
minded Waring  of  Copeland's  appearance  when, 
prompted  by  Vesta,  he  had  rushed  into  the  room  to 
find  the  body.  When  he  came  to  examine  Cunning 
closely,  Waring  realized  with  a  shock  that  the  end 
had  been  hastened  by  the  same  means.  Wound  about 
the  neck  was  a  length  of  silver  wire  and  Waring*  s  first 
act  was  to  free  the  victim  from  its  pressure. 

172 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Waring  noted  a  difference  in  the  mutilation  of  the 
faces.  Both  Cunning's  and  Copeland's  were  marked. 
In  Copeland's  murder  a  cross  appeared,  a  tiny  wound, 
scratched  upon  the  forehead.  In  Cunning's  case,  the 
face  had  been  slashed  by  a  knife  with  a  ferocity  indi- 
cating madness,  taking  the  form  of  blood  lust.  The 
lines  of  the  wounds  formed  rude  crosses  on  either  side 
of  the  face  and  the  cheeks  and  jaws  had  been  gashed 
beyond  recognition. 

"Beyond  recognition,"  Waring  repeated,  as  he  bent 
to  examine  the  murdered  man  and  to  make  certain  he 
was  beyond  the  reach  of  human  aid. 

The  mutilation  was  not  the  result  of  fiendish  mad- 
ness, but  was  prompted  by  cold,  pitiless  cunning. 

The  Red  Colonel,  ruthless  in  his  purpose,  had  de- 
cided not  to  run  the  slightest  risk  of  the  murdered  man 
being  associated  with  the  so-called  motor  mechanic, 
who  had  stayed  with  him  as  chauffeur  at  the  Black 
Lion. 

Cunning  himself  had  altered  the  whole  of  his  attire, 
and  it  was  only  necessary  for  Gaythorne  to  so  mark  the 
distorted  face  as  to  make  the  body  unrecognizable. 
This  he  had  done,  without  mercy  or  pity,  almost  before 
life  could  have  been  extinct. 

Stanley  searched  the  pockets  of  the  dead  man,  but 
there  was  not  a  recognizable  scrap  of  evidence  about 
him;  Gaythorne  had  turned  the  contents  out  thor- 
oughly, perhaps  to  make  it  impossible  for  any  one  to 
trace  the  victim  by  his  possessions,  and  again  probably 
to  make  sure  Cunning  had  not  found  the  record  for 
which  he  had  been  searching  when  Gaythorne  had  sur- 
prised him  at  the  task. 

173 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Waring,  with  a  sickening  sense  of  disgust,  turned 
to  an  examination  of  the  rooms  directly  he  realized 
nothing  could  be  done  for  Cunning.  The  reason  of 
the  presence  of  both  men  was  plainly  indicated  by  the 
disorder  of  the  room.  Everything  likely  to  contain 
papers  had  been  broken  open.  Contents  of  drawers, 
cupboards  and  safe  were  tumbled  in  rude  disorder  on 
the  floor.  Waring  did  not  waste  time  on  the  litter  of 
papers.  He  knew  nothing  valuable  was  among  them 
and  nothing  that  would  throw  light  on  Copeland's  past. 
Only,  as  his  glance  traveled  over  the  floor,  Waring 
noted  a  small  card  case  of  red  Morocco  leather.  This, 
as  being  more  likely  to  belong  to  Gaythorne  than  to 
the  dead  man,  he  slipped  into  his  pocket  for  further 
examination. 

The  turn  of  events  had  left  Waring  little  time  to 
think  of  his  own  connection  with  the  grim  happenings 
at  Wayside  Lodge.  He  had  suddenly  drifted  into  a 
nightmare  of  horror.  Used  to  the  appearance  of  death, 
even  by  violence,  the  ruthless,  appalling  brutality  of 
this  sudden  murder  had  almost  brought  Waring's  rea- 
son to  a  standstill.  After  a  last  look  round  the  room 
he  had  decided  to  leave  the  premises,  his  first  intention 
being  to  summon  help.  He  dropped  rapidly  over  the 
balcony  and  on  to  the  lawn.  Soon  he  was  walking  in 
the  direction  of  the  village.  Then  Waring  suddenly 
asked  himself  what  line  of  action  he  ought  to  take  and, 
halting  in  his  walk,  turned  back  and  began  to  retrace 
his  steps.  At  once,  he  saw  that  if  he  were  to  fulfil 
his  own  mission,  and  bring  about  the  exposure  of  the 
Red  Colonel,  his  knowledge  of  the  crime  of  that  night 
must  be  hidden.  If,  at  the  inquiry,  he  confessed  to  any 

174 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


knowledge  likely  to  suggest  he  had  been  watching,  Gay- 
thorne  would  not  only  know  he  had  the  papers,  but, 
should  his  victim  be  recognized,  he  would  at  once  go  to 
earth.  Stanley  Waring,  therefore,  walked  from  Way- 
side Lodge  by  the  lonely  way  he  had  chosen  on  his 
approach  and  reached  the  school-house  by  the  hour  of 
one. 

But  not  to  sleep.  With  such  a  horror  upon  his 
mind  Waring  could  not  rest.  He  remained  irritably 
pacing  his  bedroom,  thinking  out  the  strange  series  of 
happenings  into  which  he  had  been  drawn. 

Slowly  he  puzzled  out  the  chain  of  circumstances, 
and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Gaythorne  had  driven 
out  of  Missingham  in  the  morning  with  his  chauffeur 
as  a  feint.  Gaythorne  had  apparently  dropped  Cun- 
ning and  sent  him  back  with  precise  instructions  to  ob- 
tain the  key  and  watch  Waring.  And  unexpectedly 
the  Red  Colonel  had  returned  to  watch  his  own  man 
with  the  result  Waring  had  witnessed. 

The  card  case  Waring  had  picked  up  was  examined 
critically.  It  contained  very  little  throwing  light  on 
Gaythorne.  Indeed,  beyond  three  or  four  blank  cards 
and  a  few  postage  stamps,  it  was  empty,  save  for  a 
scrap  of  paper. 

On  this  was  scrawled  in  penciled  and  hurried  char- 
acters a  brief  message: 

Instruction  received.     Will  attend  to  the  shark.     W. 

The  note  contained  no  message  for  Waring.  It 
might  have  meant  anything  or  nothing. 

By  now,  however,  Waring  had  come  to  know  the 
men  with  whom  he  had  to  deal,  and  realized  the  slightest 

175 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


detail  relating  to  them  was  significant.  He  pondered 
over  the  scrap  of  paper  for  many  minutes,  but  its 
cryptic  message  shed  no  further  light  on  the  crime. 
Long  hours  did  Waring  spend  thinking  over  the  sinis- 
ter event  he  had  virtually  witnessed,  and  the  more  he 
thought,  the  more  conviction  grew  that  the  way  Cope- 
land  had  outlined  for  him  was  not  only  beset  with  dif- 
ficulties, but  with  many  dangers  at  the  hands  of  reso- 
lute and  ruthless  foes.  What  he  had  seen  that  night 
had  been,  as  yet,  the  gravest  warning  he  had  received. 
Although  he  had  realized  the  necessity  of  moving  care- 
fully along  the  Red  Colonel's  trail,  Waring  now  knew 
the  slightest  blunder  would  be  fatal. 

Although  morning  had  well  advanced  before  Stanley 
retired,  his  mind  was  occupied  with  the  tangled  skein 
of  life  into  which  he  had  strayed  and  he  did  not  sleep 
heavily  or  long.  Indeed,  he  was  down  almost  as  soon 
as  the  servants,  and,  although  his  overnight  experiences 
had  been  disturbing,  he  was  to  receive  further  proofs 
of  the  Red  Colonel's  power. 

By  the  hour  of  eight  o'clock  the  morning  papers  had 
arrived.  Puzzled  in  his  own  mind  as  to  how  long  it 
would  be  before  the  second  murder  at  Wayside  Lodge 
was  discovered,  and  somewhat  anxious  to  know  how 
the  discovery  would  be  brought  about,  he  wandered 
about  the  house  restlessly. 

At  last,  to  take  his  mind  off  problems  haunting  him 
to  the  point  of  obsession,  Waring  turned  to  the  daily 
papers  and  the  news  of  the  world's  doings. 

He  sat  in  the  morning  room  before  a  blazing  fire, 
idly  turning  over  the  crackling  sheets,  glad  perhaps  to 
be  alone  and  to  recover  himself  to  the  point  where  he 

176 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


could  turn  a  casual  air  to  his  folk  during  the  day.  He 
had  a  morbid  horror  of  hearing  the  first  announcement 
of  the  second  murder,  a  fear  that  his  manner  would  be- 
tray some  consciousness  of  the  crime.  Indeed,  to  him- 
self he  seemed  to  be  the  possessor  of  guilty  knowledge. 
Time  after  time,  he  wondered  whether  he  should  call 
in  the  police  and  make  a  clean  breast  of  the  matter  and 
time  after  time  his  instinct  said  no.  He  had  given  the 
negative  once  again  to  the  same  question  when  he 
turned  to  the  paper,  his  mind  working  over  his  own 
problems  as  he  skimmed  the  columns. 

Waring  had  not  been  glancing  at  the  paper  many 
seconds,  however,  before  his  wandering  attention  was 
brought  to  a  sharp  standstill.  A  paragraph  stood  out 
before  his  eyes,  with  the  curious  insistence  of  any  news- 
paper item  that  has  a  personal  interest  to  the  reader. 

He  had  been  lightly  skimming  an  account  of  the  do- 
ings at  a  fashionable  fancy  dress  ball  promoted  by  a 
group  of  artists,  a  typical  Bohemian  function.  The 
paper  gave  a  wealth  of  details  about  the  decorations, 
the  frivolities,  and  the  leading  features  of  the  party. 
Considerable  space  was  given  to  the  personalities  pres- 
ent and  their  costume  effects.  The  reader  was  told 
how  the  Duchess  of  Blessington  shone  with  a  party  of 
friends  in  all  the  glory  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  her  party, 
making  a  suite  of  the  distinguished  people  in  Eliza- 
beth's train.  One  also  learned  how  Sir  Horace  Breeze, 
with  leading  members  of  his  Shaftsbury  Avenue  Com- 
pany, arrived  late  and  came  as  the  characters  in  the 
latest  Shaftsbury  success.  Also,  a  junior  minister  had 
been  noticeable  as  Charles  the  Second.  The  newspaper 
paragraph  gave  all  the  details.  Waring  was  imbibing 

177 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


the  facts  subconsciously  when  his  brain  came  acutely  to 
attention  over  the  following  paragraph. 

Mr.  Henry  Gaythorne  and  a  bachelor  party  came  on 
after  supper,  and  the  popular  American  with  a  troupe  of 
friends,  costumed  to  represent  pioneers  of  the  Mayflower, 
were  among  the  keenest  merrymakers  there. 

Stanley  Waring  read  and  reread  that  paragraph. 
At  once  he  saw  its  significance.  Either  he  had  been 
wrong  in  identifying  his  man,  or  the  resources  of  the 
Red  Colonel  grew  much  more  menacing.  That  para- 
graph obviously  meant  one  of  two  things.  Either 
Waring  had  made  a  mistake  scarcely  explicable,  or  the 
Red  Colonel  had  anticipated  any  danger  by  providing 
a  perfect  alibi  which  Waring  would  have  a  difficulty  in 
breaking  down. 

The  paragraph  did  at  least  set  doubts  to  rest  in 
Waring's  mind.  He  was  fighting  an  enemy  as  far- 
sighted  as  he  was  keen,  and  any  admission  on  War- 
ing's  part  of  the  knowledge  he  had  gleaned  through 
the  night  would  defeat  the  probabilities  of  proving  the 
facts  he  suspected  against  Gaythorne. 

But  the  paragraph,  leaping  to  the  eye  from  the  re- 
corded trivialities  of  a  society  masquerade,  was  not 
the  only  piece  of  information  to  demand  Waring's  at- 
tention. 

He  had  turned  to  the  paper  as  a  relief  from  prob- 
lems associated  with  the  Red  Colonel,  but  he  was  to 
find  that  daily  almost  as  closely  in  touch  with  the  sin- 
ister events  as  himself,  though  the  newspaper  gave  the 
details  unconsciously. 

178 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


No  sooner  had  Waring  recovered  from  the  abstrac- 
tion into  which  he  had  fallen  on  reading  of  Gaythorne's 
presence  at  the  fancy  dress  ball  than  his  mind  received 
a  fresh  shock. 

On  another  page  of  the  paper  a  somber  heading 
called  his  attention  to  a  further  mystery : 

A  CITY  SENSATION 
SOLICITOR  SHOT  IN  HIS  OFFICE 

Waring  scanned  the  two  lines  mechanically.  He  had 
no  appetite  for  further  tragedy.  His  eye  was  follow- 
ing the  lines,  mechanically  absorbing  the  facts,  when 
suddenly  he  sat  up  with  a  face  pale  with  astonishment. 

"Good  God!"  he  said  slowly  to  himself.  "The  old 
solicitor,  Mark  S.  James !" 

There  was  no  doubting  the  significance  of  the  news. 
It  gave  a  straightforward  but  meager  account  of  a 
tragedy  that  had  only  leaked  out  and  into  the  world 
of  newspaperdom  late  at  night.  Obviously,  the  matter 
had  not  been  fully  investigated  but  the  probabilities 
were  there  plain  enough,  and  Waring,  in  view  of  his  pe- 
culiar knowledge,  could  guess  the  rest  of  the  details 
likely  to  be  available  when  the  evening  papers  gave 
fuller  reports. 

The  police  are  busily  engaged  investigating  the  death  of 
Mr.  Mark  S.  James,  a  solicitor  who,  for  many  years,  has 
practiced  at  14a  Temple  Court  [Waring  road].  From  the 
information  available  we  learn  Mr.  James  stopped  at  his 
office  later  than  usual  and  was  left  by  his  clerks  about  the 

179 


THE   RED   COLONEL. 


hour  of  six,  according  to  his  direction.  About  nine  o'clock 
in  the  evening  he  was  discovered  by  a  cleaner  in  his  own 
room  shot  through  the  body,  and  had  apparently  been  dead 
for  some  time.  The  police  are  very  reticent  about  the 
matter,  but  inquiry  late  last  night  confirms  the  general  offi- 
cial impression  that  what  at  first  sight  seemed  to  have  been 
a  case  of  suicide  will  turn  out  to  be  a  mysterious  crime. 
No  weapon  has  been  discovered  in  the  room,  and  there 
were  traces  of  a  struggle.  The  face  of  the  dead  man  was 
slightly  injured.  A  rude  mark  on  the  forehead  took  the 
shape  of  a  cross,  but  the  police  attach  no  importance  to  it. 
The  superficial  cut  might  have  been  caused  when  the  body 
collapsed  on  the  floor  near  the  desk  where  Mr.  James  had 
been  working. 

Apparently  the  newspaper  men  had  not  had  time  to 
give  the  results  of  further  inquiries. 

Pale,  shaken  and  unnerved  by  this  disaster,  Waring 
sat  staring  into  the  fire. 

That  morning  paper  had  given  him  food  for  thought 
out  of  all  proportion  to  his  expectations.  Whether 
Gaythorne  was  the  Red  Colonel  or  not,  the  sinister 
figure  in  Paul  Copeland's  past  was  a  very  real  force  in 
the  present  and  was  spreading  his  net  wide  without 
loss  of  time  or  opportunity. 

"Breakfast  is  served,"  a  servant  said  at  Waring's 
elbow. 

Somewhat  unsteadily  he  went  to  the  breakfast  room 
and  greeted  the  members  of  the  family  circle.  Mrs. 
Waring  was  pouring  out  coffee.  Vesta  was  looking 
with  interest  into  a  picture  paper.  His  father  was  pre- 
occupied with  the  Times. 

A  little  pile  of  letters  was  set  by  Waring's  plate. 
180 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


He  read  them  through  one  by  one  until  he  came  to 
the  fourth. 

As  he  broke  the  seal  and  looked  at  the  letter  inside 
for  the  third  time  since  he  had  risen  Waring  received 
another  surprise. 

The  letter  was  on  professional  notepaper,  and  bore 
at  the  top  the  address  of  the  dead  solicitor — "14a 
Temple  Court,  E.  C." 

Dated  the  day  before,  its  message  was  brief. 

DEAR  MR.  WARING:      [Stanley  read — in  a  crabbed  legal 
hand] 

In  pursuance  of  my  promise,  I  am  sending  you  partic- 
ulars of  the  house — 32  Beddoes  Street — belonging  to  Miss 
Vesta  Copeland.  It  has  been  let  by  our  agent,  Mr.  Vincent 
Dagleish,  to  a  Mr.  George  Delane  for  a  long  term  of  years. 
He  writes,  inclosing  a  note  to  the  tenant,  who  will  be 
happy  to  show  you  over  the  place  if  you  feel  you  would 
still  like  to  see  the  property. 

Yours  faithfully, 

MARK  S.  JAMES. 

P.S. — As  a  friend,  may  I  suggest  you  go  warily  in  mat- 
ters relating  to  P.  C.  I  have  reason  to  fear  his  associates 
are  active. 

The  body  of  the  letter  was  written  in  a  black  ink  in 
firm  characters  and  was  such  a  letter  as  a  lawyer's  clerk 
might  indite.  The  postscript  was  written  differently 
and  in  the  same  handwriting  as  the  signature,  and  the 
letter  had  not  been  copied.  A  clerk  had  evidently  writ- 
ten the  body  of  the  letter  to  dictation.  The  postscript 
had  been,  added  by  the  solicitor  himself,  perhaps  im- 

181 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


pelled  by  a  mere  friendly  desire  to  keep  Waring  on  his 
guard;  and  perhaps  again  as  a  warning  arising  out  of 
some  sinister  indication  in  his  own  day's  round. 

Though  genuinely  concerned  about  the  death  of  the 
old  professional  man  whose  personality  had  impressed 
itself  on  Waring,  Stanley  had  forgotten  the  two  trage- 
dies. His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  address  sent  on  to  him 
by  the  solicitor. 

"Why,  Stanley,"  he  heard  his  mother's  voice  saying 
in  the  placid,  easy  tones  of  one  who  has  lived  a  shel- 
tered life,  "you  are  not  eating  your  breakfast,  and 
you  look — why,  you  look  as  if  you  had  seen  a  ghost." 

Stanley  smiled  and  pulled  himself  together,  but  as 
he  broke  open  an  egg  and  made  a  pretence  of  taking 
part  in  the  small  talk  of  the  table  his  mind  was  occu- 
pied by  one  phrase. 

Odd,  in  view  of  the  tragic  knowledge  he  had  ac- 
quired overnight,  that  his  brain  should  be  turning  over 
such  a  trivial  verbal  combination,  but  drumming  in 
Waring's  sharpened  senses  was  a  constant  repetition 
of  the  address  given  by  Mr.  James,  and  some  of  the 
letters  and  numerals  in  Paul  Copeland's  memoranda. 

"32  Beddoes  Street — 32  Bed "  Waring  found 

himself  thinking  over  and  over  again. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

f  •  ^HE  day  after  the  murder  of  Cunning  at  Wayside 
Lodge  provided  Stanley  Waring  with  much  to 
occupy  his  mind.  Immediately  breakfast  was 
over  he  retired  to  his  room  and  once  more  examined 
the  manuscript  and  other  items  left  in  his  possession  by 
Paul  Copeland.  Many  times  he  had  read  the  story 
through,  and  searched  the  narrative  for  some  explana- 
tion of  the  two  rude  designs  forming  part  of  the  en- 
closures. He  had  the  clews — of  this  Stanley  Waring 
was  convinced — but,  look  at  them  as  closely  as  he  might, 
they  offered  no  indication  of  their  meaning.  And  here, 
like  a  bolt  from  the  blue,  some  part  of  the  secret  was 
revealed  in  one  of  the  last  letters  written  by  the  solici- 
tor who  had  met  a  tragic  end  in  his  rooms  at  Temple 
Court. 

As  part  of  Paul  Copeland's  memoranda  entrusted 
to  Stanley  Waring  the  reader  will  remember  a  slip  of 
Bristol  board  on  which  had  been  drawn  a  crude  de- 
sign. 

This  design  Stanley  Waring  had  scrutinized  many 
times.  It  has  been  described  already  as  a  drawing  that 
might  have  represented  an  idle  man's  attempt  to  re- 
produce some  shape  in  a  room,  such  as  a  panel  in  a 
door,  a  corner  to  some  piece  of  woodwork,  even  a  quaint 
specimen  of  oak  carving.  The  drawing  might  have 
represented  something  seen  from  a  window,  or  in  the 
street,  the  moulding  over  an  archway,  a  section  of  the 

183 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


ornamentation  upon  a  stone  pillar,  a  design  above  a 
window  frame. 

Waring's  scrutiny  had  led  him  thus  far,  but  with  so 
many  things  the  drawing  might  represent  the  puzzle 
was  to  know  exactly  what  it  did  illustrate. 

Again  Stanley  looked  at  the  characteristics  of  this 
strange  design,  and  again  his  mind  failed  to  make  more 
of  it  than  it  had  done  before.  But  the  line  of  letters 
and  numerals  underneath,  for  the  first  time,  took  on 
added  significance. 

The  design  had  been  marked  by  Copeland  Fl — 32 
Bed— R.M. 

Over  those  letters  Waring  had  puzzled,  but  his  mind, 
trained  in  the  hospitals,  had  come  no  nearer  to  a  solu- 
tion than  a  belief  that  the  central  "32  Bed"  in  this  line, 
represented  a  bed  in  the  ward  of  a  hospital  at  some 
time  occupied  by  Paul  Copeland. 

And  now,  as  he  looked,  some  guide  to  the  meaning  of 
Copeland's  letters  and  figures  was  revealed. 

Whatever  Fl — 32  Bed — R.M.  might  mean  alto- 
gether, the  center  part  of  the  cryptic  line  certainly  in- 
dicated the  address  of  the  house  Vesta  Copeland  owned 
— the  address,  32  Beddoes  Street,  forwarded  by  the 
unfortunate  solicitor,  Mark  James. 

Time  and  a  very  tragic  event  had  revealed  one  point 
where  Waring  should  at  least  start  his  inquiry.  The 
similarity  between  32  Bed  and  32  Beddoes  Street  in 
such  circumstances  was  too  significant  for  Stanley 
Waring  to  overlook.  Every  impulse  of  his  mind  urged 
him  in  the  direction  of  Beddoes  Street  and  the  house 
Vesta  Copeland  had  acquired  under  such  remarkable 
circumstances. 

184 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


One  of  Waring's  first  acts  that  day  was  to  write  to 
the  address  given  by  Mr.  James  asking  the  tenant,  Mr. 
George  Delane,  to  give  him  permission  to  go  over  3£ 
Beddoes  Street  on  behalf  of  the  owner,  Miss  Vesta 
Copeland. 

All  through  that  day  and  very  impatiently,  Waring 
remained  in  Missingham.  His  mind  was  disturbed  by 
the  knowledge  he  alone  possessed.  His  thoughts  would 
return  to  the  room  in  the  silent,  deserted  house,  where 
the  second  crime  at  Wayside  Lodge  awaited  discovery. 
The  mutilated  body  there  haunted  his  brain.  The  fact 
that  the  crime  was  not  discovered  seemed  to  make  him 
in  some  degree  responsible  for  the  guilty  secret.  He 
went  along  the  quiet  streets  of  Missingham  and  found 
the  people  going  about  the  easy  round  of  a  typical 
day  in  village  life,  obviously  with  no  knowledge  of  the 
second  horror  perpetrated  in  their  midst.  He  won- 
dered how  long  the  end  of  Cunning  would  remain  un- 
discovered and  his  excited  fancy  pictured  the  hours 
drawing  out  into  days  and  the  days  adding  themselves 
into  weeks  before  the  burden  of  his  secret  could  be 
shared  by  others. 

The  hours  of  the  morning  passed  on  and  the  village 
remained  the  same.  Stanley  Waring,  after  posting  his 
letter,  returned  to  lunch  with  his  own  people.  After 
lunch  he  set  out  with  Vesta  for  a  tramp  over  the  hills, 
for  this  long  afternoon  walk  together  had  become  a 
part  of  the  day's  routine  for  the  lovers,  since  Vesta 
had  come  to  reside  at  the  school-house,  and  when  War- 
ing was  at  home.  As  they  moved,  side  by  side,  through 
the  village  street,  Stanley  knew,  almost  by  instinct,  that 
some  part  of  Paul  Copeland's  story  would  have  to  be 

185 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


told  to  the  girl  who  believed  herself  to  be  his  daughter. 

Vesta  Copeland  was  quiet,  and  spoke  but  little.  Her 
usual  flow  of  high  spirits  had  received  a  check  since 
Waring  had  confessed  the  danger  he  believed  to  be 
threatening  both  Vesta  and  himself.  The  mysterious 
errand,  taking  him  late  in  the  evening  to  Wayside 
Lodge,  had  disturbed  her.  She  had  also  noted  his  grave 
preoccupation  of  manner.  Intuition  told  her  all  was 
not  well  with  her  lover.  She  had  decided  to  do  as  she 
had  done  before,  to  raise  the  important  issue,  as  they 
walked  together  in  the  quiet  country  lanes. 

"Stanley,"  she  said,  the  thought  in  her  mind  indi- 
cated by  the  troubled  voice,  "has  it  occurred  to  you 
that  I  cannot  go  on  like  this  indefinitely?" 

He  knew,  as  if  she  had  already  stated  her  thoughts, 
the  point  Vesta  Copeland  was  going  to  raise. 

"You  know  I  am  living  in  your  house  and  with  your 
parents,"  she  insisted.  "They  have  made  me  very  wel- 
come, and  I  know  their  hospitality  is  due  to  your  in- 
terest in  me,  in  part,  and  no  doubt  in  a  measure  they 
were  eager  to  help  me  through  the  difficult  period  after 
my  father's  death." 

"Yes "  Waring  answered.  "You  need  not  worry 

about  that.  My  mother  is  quite  content  to  have  you 
stay  as  long  as  you  choose  to  remain." 

"I  know  she  is  very  good,"  Vesta  Copeland  answered 
sincerely.  "She  almost  spoils  me.  But — I  cannot  tres- 
pass on  her  kindness  much  longer.  The  time  is  come 
when  I  must  ask  myself  two  questions — who  am  I,  and 
what  is  my  place  in  the  world.  My  father  was  a  mys- 
tery even  to  me.  I  grew  up  with  him  and  took  much 
for  granted.  For  instance,  I  knew  so  long  as  he  lived 

186 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


I  should  have  ample  means.  But  now  I  am  in  the  dark. 
No  one  seems  to  know  who  he  was,  and  I  see  no  hint 
indicating  the  source  of  his  income.  Surely  it  has 
struck  you  already  that  I  am  practically  nameless  and 
without  any  visible  means  of  subsistence." 

Stanley  Waiting's  gaze  was  fixed  on  the  girl's  earnest 
upturned  face. 

"I  have  thought  of  that,"  he  admitted  slowly.  "I 
have  been  wondering  how  much  I  ought  to  tell  you. 
There  is  a  greater  mystery  surrounding  your  life  and 
parentage  than  you  can  imagine." 

"You  know?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  replied ;  "I  know.  I  learned  all  the  essen- 
tials of  your  history  from  your  father." 

"And  you  have  not  told  me,"  Vesta  replied.  "Is  this 
quite  fair?"  she  asked.  "I  am  no  longer  a  child." 

"I  wanted  to  spare  you  considerable  pain,"  he  an- 
swered indecisively. 

"But  you  must  know  sooner  or  later  I  should  be 
compelled  to  ask." 

"I  had  thought  to  be  able  to  simplify  matters  so  that 
you  would  only  need  to  be  told  the  pleasant  parts.  I 
regret  to  say  my  calculations  have  been  upset,  almost 
during  the  last  twenty-four  hours." 

Vesta  looked  at  Waring  with  a  quiet  confidence  dis- 
tinctly reassuring. 

"Do  you  think  I  am  too  weak  to  bear  this  secret 
knowledge  you  possess,"  she  asked,  her  voice  vibrating. 

"No,"  he  answered  simply.  "I  just  desired  you  not 
to  know." 

"Sooner  or  later,  I  must  know,"  she  said  earnestly. 
"And  if  there  is  to  be  no  confidence  between  us  how  are 

187 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


we  to  continue — in  any  relationship?  Tell  me — at 
least,  tell  me  sufficient  to  ease  the  growing  sense  of  in- 
security in  my  mind." 

Stanley  hesitated  a  moment. 

"I  will,"  he  answered  at  last.  "Only  on  one  condi- 
tion. The  matter  remains  a  secret.  Whatever  hap- 
pens, you  must  trust  me  and  take  no  action  without 
first  consulting  me.  Will  you  promise  that?" 

"I  am  so  sure  all  you  do  or  may  do  will  be  in  my  in- 
terests that  I  willingly  promise,"  the  girl  said,  pressing 
his  arm  with  the  confidence  of  her  strong,  young  love. 

"Then,  at  once,  I  may  tell  you,  Paul  Copeland  left 
you  quite  independent,"  Stanley  Waring  began.  "Mr. 
James,  the  solicitor,  tells  me  your  father  left  property 
invested  in  your  name  producing  not  less  than  £600  a 
year.  So,  you  see,"  he  suggested  gaily,  "you  are  not  a 
pauper." 

"Does  Mr.  James  know  my  past?"  she  asked  eagerly. 
"Can  I  see  him?" 

"No,"  Waring  answered  grimly. 

"Why?" 

"He  was  murdered  last  night.  I  am  sorry  to  see  you 
drifting  into  deep  currents,  but  that  is  the  truth." 

"How  do  you  know?"  Vesta  asked,  shivering 
slightly. 

"The  facts  were  in  this  morning's  papers." 

She  looked  at  Stanley  curiously  and  with  rising 
alarm. 

"Did  you  expect  this  second  murder?"  she  asked. 

"No-^  -"  he  replied. 

"Were  you  surprised?"  she  urged. 

"No." 

188 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"There  is  real  danger  to  all  connected  with  my  fa- 
ther— that  is  what  you  meant  last  night.  The  secrets 
in  his  life  place  all  connected  with  him  in  danger." 

"Yes — to  a  certain  extent,  yes,"  Waring  admitted. 
"Believe  me  when  I  say  this  danger  is  the  one  reason 
for  my  secrecy — why  I  have  hesitated  to  tell  you  all  I 
know." 

"Wherein  lies  the  danger?"  the  girl  insisted.  "Am  I 
in  danger?  Is  your  mother?  Are  you?" 

"No — no,"  Waring  answered  readily.  "Your  father 
possessed  a  secret  of  great  value  to  unscrupulous  men. 
The  people  who  know  the  secret  or  might  know  it  are 
the  people  in  actual  danger." 

"Who  does  know  it?" 

"This  lawyer,  Mr.  James,  he  knew  part  of  it,"  War- 
ing admitted. 

The  girl's  face  suddenly  paled. 

"He  died  violently,  you  said  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  there  are  others  who  know?"  the  girl  asked 
nervously. 

"To  the  best  of  my  knowledge  there  are  three  people 
who  know  now,"  Waring  answered  grudgingly. 

"Do  I  know  them?" 

"No — two  are  strangers,"  Waring  explained.  "They 
want  details  of  the  secret.  They  make  a  knowledge  of 
your  father's  past  dangerous." 

The  girl  stopped  suddenly  and  her  pale  face  grew 
more  troubled. 

"And  the  third?"  she  asked  earnestly. 

He  was  silent,  cornered  by  her  reasoning. 

She  did  not  wait  for  him  to  reply. 

189 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


"You  are  the  third,"  she  said,  her  voice  strained  and 
anguished.  "You  go  under  the  shadow  of  the  danger 
that  fell  upon  my  father  and  upon  this  lawyer  I  did  not 
know.  It  must  not  be.  I  will  not  have  you  exposed 
to  such  peril  for  my  sake.  I  insist  on  sharing  this  se- 
cret and  seeing  how  far  you  run  this  risk  because  of 
me,  how  far  I  can  prevent  you  from  being  drawn  into 
what  must  be  a  dark  side  of  my  father's  life." 

He  tried  to  calm  her  by  reassuring  words. 

"You  must  trust  me,  darling,"  he  said.  "My  danger 
is  not  so  great.  His  enemies  knew  your  father  had  the 
secret.  He  died.  They  believed  his  solicitor  must  have 
the  secret  and — he  died.  They  do  not  know  I  hold  the 
knowledge  they  want.  They  only  suspect." 

"You  have  the  secret?"  she  insisted.  "Then  you  are 
in  the  same  danger  as  these  other  two  men  were." 

"No — not  the  same  danger,  dearest.  I  have  two  ad- 
vantages. The  men  who  want  this  knowledge  do  not 
know  how  I  stand,  how  far  I  was  in  Copeland's  confi- 
dence." 

"But  they  will  find  out,"  the  girl  said,  panic-stricken 
at  the  abyss  her  lover  had  revealed.  "And  they  will 
act." 

"I  have  a  second  advantage.  I  know  both  these 
men,"  Waring  replied.  "The  lawyer  did  not." 

Waring  then  told  Vesta  Copeland  sufficient  of  the 
facts  to  set  the  girl  upon  her  guard.  He  told  her  first 
that  she  was  not  Paul  Copeland's  daughter.  The  in- 
formation seemed  to  be  a  relief  to  Vesta.  After,  he 
told  her  what  Paul  Copeland  had  been  and,  in  some 
degree,  outlined  the  reasons  why  he  had  been  attacked. 
He  told  her  no  details,  nor  did  he  hint  of  the  existence 

190 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


of  the  memoranda  supplied  by  Copeland.  Waring  even 
led  Vesta  to  believe  the  facts  had  been  communicated  by 
Paul  Copeland  while  she  was  out  of  the  room,  on  the 
evening  before  the  murder. 

"You  will  see  the  need  for  secrecy,"  he  said  at  last. 
"I  would  like  you  to  forget  the  whole  of  this  conversa- 
tion, but,  short  of  that,  I  want  you  never  to  be  sur- 
prised into  an  admission  of  a  knowledge  of  a  single 
fact.  You  will  promise." 

The  girl  hesitated. 

"But  why  do  you  face  the  risk  of  this  appalling  situ- 
ation?" she  asked  earnestly. 

He  looked  grimly  and  absently  away  from  the  girl 
toward  the  west  and  the  afterglow  of  the  setting  sun. 

"Because  the  chain  is  not  complete,"  he  answered. 
"I  cannot  link  the  two  men  with  their  crime  in  such  a 
way  as  will  bring  them  into  the  clutches  of  the  law. 
And,  more,  I  think  a  word  of  indiscreet  inquiry  made 
carelessly  would  set  them  scurrying  to  cover  and  help 
them  to  escape." 

"Why  not  make  the  inquiry  through  the  police  and 
have  done  with  them?"  she  asked  earnestly. 

His  face  set  with  the  stern  purpose  of  the  hunter, 
with  the  power  of  a  man  ready  to  accept  dangers,  with 
the  eagerness  of  one  who  answers  a  challenge  to  pit  rea- 
son against  cunning,  courage  against  lawlessness,  in- 
tegrity against  moral  degeneration. 

"There  are  two  reasons,"  he  answered  simply.  "If  I 
give  the  information,  my  game  will  be  frightened  away, 
but  only  for  a  time.  I  shall  still  know  what  I  know  and 
they  will  come  back  to  me.  I  shall  have  to  face  the 
same  danger." 

191 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"And  jour  other  reason?"  she  urged,  pride  lighting 
her  eyes  as  she  looked  into  his  strong  face. 

"The  other  reason  is,  I  want  these  two  scoundrels  to 
fall  to  my  hand.  I  want  to  be  certain  when  the  time 
comes  that  I  have  drawn  a  ring  round  them  so  there  can 
be  no  chance  of  their  escape.  You  will  be  silent?" 

"Nothing  will  turn  you  back?"  she  asked,  her  voice 
shaking  with  emotion. 

"No,  I  cannot  turn  back,"  he  answered. 

There  was  a  silence  between  them  for  some  minutes 
and  now  their  faces  were  turned  toward  the  village. 

"No,"  she  agreed,  and  Vesta's  voice  was  firm,  for  her 
spirit  had  caught  some  of  his  purpose.  "I  see  that 

now;  you  cannot  turn  back.     And "  she  stopped, 

her  words  ending  in  a  sigh. 

"You  will  be  silent  ?"  he  urged  anxiously. 

"Yes,"  the  word  was  whispered,  and  she  insisted  on 
hanging  upon  his  arm  as  they  walked  on,  perhaps  a 
little  fearfully,  as  if  she  expected  his  enemies  to  strike 
Waring  as  they  traversed  the  road  to  Missingham  in 
the  sleepy  twilight. 


CHAPTER   XX 

i 

AS  Vesta  passed  with  Stanley  Waring  into 
the  village,  both,  familiar  with  its  routine, 
realized  that  Missingham  was  by  no  means 
its  usual  self. 

Something  had  happened  to  disturb  the  placid  calm 
of  its  even  round.  The  main  street  was  in  the  throes  of 
a  great  public  agitation.  The  thoroughfare  presented 
such  signs  of  agitation  as  one  may  observe  when  the 
predatory  cat  suddenly  appears  among  the  gentle  pig- 
eons. 

Along  the  main  street  business  seemed  to  have  been 
suspended.  Tradespeople  and  their  assistants  stood 
at  the  open  doors  of  their  shops,  gossiping  earnestly 
with  customers  and  passers-by.  Village  folk  had  left 
the  dim  interiors  of  their  thatched  cottages.  Old  men 
and  young  were  making  their  way  toward  the  lane 
leading  to  Wayside  Lodge.  Others  stopped  in  groups 
to  talk  excitedly,  though,  as  Waring  and  Vesta  passed, 
both  noticed  their  slow  Buckinghamshire  drawl  was 
hushed,  as  if  the  conversation  being  carried  on  had 
about  it  the  elements  of  the  dreadful. 

Stanley  Waring  would  have  piloted  Vesta  through 
the  usually  busy  thoroughfare,  for  he  was  painfully 
aware  of  the  reason  fdr  the  display  of  public  excite- 
ment. He  knew  full  well  the  village  had  once  more 
passed  into  the  shadow  of  a  crime  that  held  it  pleas- 
antly awed  and  spellbound.  The  secret  of  the  study  at 

193 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Wayside  Lodge  was  a  secret  no  longer  and  the  story 
of  the  latest  horror  was  passing  from  lip  to  lip  as 
quickly  as  only  rumor  with  its  myriad  tongues  can 
travel. 

Vesta  saw  the  unusual  signs  of  public  excitement  with 
very  natural  interest.  She  observed  the  village  people 
looked  at  her  in  the  failing  light  with  a  curiosity  akin 
to  pity.  Once,  coming  upon  an  excited  group  talking 
loudly  but  freely,  she  overheard  the  men  using  the 
dreadful  word — murder.  As  they  recognized  her  the 
sinister  talk  suddenly  died  away  into  a  disturbing 
silence. 

If  Stanley  Waring  could  have  had  his  own  way  he 
would  have  hurried  Vesta  through  the  village  and  have 
left  the  news  to  circulate  until  it  reached  Vesta  in  the 
shelter  of  her  temporary  home.  Vesta,  however,  had 
a  will  and  initiative  of  her  own,  and  she  took  prompt 
action  to  satisfy  her  very  feminine  curiosity. 

Before  Stanley  could  realize  her  intention,  Vesta 
stopped  in  front  of  the  village  grocer's  shop  and  asked 
the  storekeeper  point  blank  the  reason  of  the  apparent 
public  disturbance. 

Ramus  Sturt  was  talking  to  his  assistants  and  a 
group  of  intimates  eagerly  canvassing  the  details  of  the 
new  sensation  with  the  zest  of  a  gossip.  All  looked 
curiously  at  the  girl  and  hesitated  awkwardly  before 
replying  to  her  direct  question. 

"Haven't  you  heard?"  Sturt  said,  at  last,  nervously 
fingering  his  chin.  His  expression  was  the  same  she 
had  observed  on  the  faces  of  other  villagers — a  vague, 
unspoken,  unaccountable  sympathy. 

"No,"  Vesta  answered  decisively.  "From  your  man- 
194 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


ner  I  judge  something  has  happened  which  I  should 
not  be  told." 

The  trader  looked  at  the  girl,  indecision  in  his  very 
action,  and  from  her  face  his  eyes  strayed  to  Stanley 
Waring's. 

"No,"  Sturt  said  at  last.  "It  is  something  you  will 
be  told  sooner  or  later;  only  I  do  not  like  the  task  of 
being  the  first  to  break  painful  news  to  you,  miss.  I 
reckon  you  have  suffered  enough  without  having  to  hear 
about  this  last  matter,  and  to  have  all  the  horrors  of 
your  own  trouble  brought  up  again." 

Vesta's  face  was  white  and  anxious,  but  the  trader 
had  said  enough  to  make  her  determined  to  hear  more. 

"Then  it  does  affect  me?"  she  asked  urgently. 

"Well,  in  a  way,  yes,  and  in  a  way,  no,"  the  trader 
answered,  scraping  his  chin.  "You  see,  miss,  there's 
been  another  murder  at  your  old  house,  Wayside 
Lodge.  Young  Mr.  Simpson,  Mr.  Abraham's  clerk, 
had  to  go  over  the  house  this  afternoon,  and  he  found 
the  body." 

"Whose  body?"  Vesta  asked  quickly. 

"Ah!  that  no  one  seems  to  know,"  answered  one  of 
the  bystanders,  his  mind  fascinated  by  the  mystery,  his 
gossiping  tongue  eager  to  take  its  share  in  recounting 
the  latest  strange  story  to  disturb  the  even  tenor  of 
Missingham  life,  to  some  one  unfamiliar  with  the  de- 
tails. 

Stanley  Waring  remained  by  Vesta's  side.  He  did 
not  try  to  stop  the  excited  flow  of  narrative,  knowing 
full  well  Vesta  must  sooner  or  later  learn  all  the  de- 
tails. Indeed,  to  quicken  up  the  gossips  with  the  hope 
that  the  end  should  soon  be  in  sight — for  village  tales 

195 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


take  a  long  time  in  the  telling — he  asked  a  few  judicious 
leading  questions. 

"Arid  that's  all  they  know,  miss,"  Sturt  concluded, 
pleased  to  have  an  opportunity  of  telling  the  story  for 
the  tenth  time.  Indeed,  he  said  the  words  grudgingly, 
for  once  started  he  had  enjoyed  recounting  the  facts 
and  had  some  regret  when  the  center  of  interest  shifted 
from  himself. 

"And  they  do  say,"  added  a  villager,  standing  near, 
"the  dead  man  was  strangled  by  a  piano  wire  and  had 
a  cross  upon  his  face,  the  same  as " 

The  gossip  pulled  himself  up,  suddenly  made  aware 
of  the  decencies  of  the  situation,  by  the  accumulated 
horror  shown  on  Vesta  Copeland's  pallid  face. 

Vesta  did  not  ask  further  questions.  She  was  sway- 
ing slightly.  Her  eyes  were  glazed  with  tears.  The 
villagers  put  down  her  emotions  to  the  train  of  recollec- 
tions excited  by  the  obvious  relationship  of  the  second 
crime  with  the  first.  She  turned  to  Stanley  with  an 
unspoken  appeal  in  her  eyes,  and  he  slipped  his  arm 
through  hers  and  they  walked  off  down  the  lighted  vil- 
lage street,  followed  curiously  by  the  glances  of  the 
people  who  remained  to  tell  and  retell  all  the  circum- 
stances of  the  new  horror  with  infinite  relish  as  they 
lingered  about  shop  and  cottage  doors. 

It  was  not  emotion  caused  by  the  association  of  the 
second  sinister  happening  in  the  house  that  had  been 
her  home  with  the  shock  Vesta  Copeland  had  received 
on  the  night  she  had  discovered  the  nature  of  her  step- 
father's end.  Vesta  Copeland's  mind  was  in  a  panic 
and  her  nerves  were  unstrung  because  she  guessed  this 
ruthless  second  murder  indicated  the  measure  of  the 

196 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


danger  her  lover  had  to  face.  This  thought  found 
expression  as  soon  as  she  had  run  the  gantlet  of  staring 
villagers  and,  hanging  breathlessly  on  the  arm  of  War- 
ing, had  gained  the  privacy  of  the  road  leading  to  the 
King's  school-house. 

"Stanley,"  she  gasped,  at  last,  "you  knew  this.  You 
were  at  Wayside  Lodge  last  night." 

"Yes,"  he  answered ;  "I  knew." 

"This  crime  is  the  work  of  the  men  who  seek  the 
knowledge  you  possess?" 

"Yes,"  he  admitted  grudgingly. 

"And  yet  you  say  there  is  no  danger,"  she  urged. 
"You — you  were  there  when  the  man  who  committed 
this  second  crime  might  have  been  about.  This  man 
they  have  found  might  as  easily  have  been  you.  Dear- 
est, let  us  leave  Missingham,  let  us  go  away  at  once,  let 
us  hide  from  these  monsters.  I  shall  live  in  dread  of 
hearing  you  have  paid  the  penalty  of  sharing  this 
guilty  secret.  Already  three  lives  have  been  sacrificed 
to  this  legacy  from  my  stepfather's  past." 

"Fly!"  Waring  said,  his  firm  lips  setting.  "Why 
should  we  hide?"  he  asked  proudly.  "Paul  Copeland 
tried  to  hide.  On  your  own  showing,  he  had  all  the 
world  in  which  to  conceal  himself,  but  they  found 
him." 

"But,  don't  you  see,  this  is  the  third  life,"  she 
moaned.  "The  next  may  easily  be  yours.  I  beg  of  you 
not  to  interfere ;  to  leave  this  -secret  and  all  it  concerns, 
to  step  out  of  this  dreadful  area  of  danger." 

He  tried  to  soothe  her,  for  Vesta  was  badly  shaken 
by  the  knowledge  of  the  murder  almost  at  their  door. 

"You  must  trust  me,"  he  said  at  last,  as  she  grew 

197 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


more  calm.  "My  flight  would  be  an  admission  of  my 
knowledge.  If  we  went  away  they  would  follow  us  as 
they  followed  Paul  Copeland,  and  the  danger  would  be 
fixed  on  you  in  equal  share  as  my  companion.  Our  best 
chance  is  silence.  Remember,  one  rash  word  or  action 
diverts  the  attention  of  these  ruthless  men  to  us.  By 
stopping  here  and  watching  discreetly,  the  danger,  such 
as  it  is,  is  confined  to  myself  and  the  risk  to  you  is  mini- 
mized. And,  besides,  I  would  sooner  take  the  luck  of  a 
desperate  game  than  fly  before  these  hounds  and  lead  a 
hole  and  corner  life,  as  your  stepfather  did,  as  a  con- 
sequence of  his  actions." 

"But  this  third  man — who  is  he?"  Vesta  asked. 
"Why,  you  must  have  been  about  Wayside  Lodge  when 
these  dreadful  people  were  moving  about." 

"I  was,"  Waring  answered.  "That  is  the  bright  side 
of  the  situation.  I  knoir  these  people  and  their  needs. 
Already  I  can  anticipate  their  next  course  of  action.  I 
knew  last  night  they  would  visit  Wayside  Lodge.  I 
was  there  when  this  thing  happened.  I  did  not  know 
this  murder  had  taken  place  until  it  was  over — until 
too  late  for  me  to  interfere,  but  I  have  one  link  in  the 
chain  of  evidence  because  I  know  two  facts  that  will 
remain  a  secret  to  the  police,  in  their  investigations  of 
this  crime.  I  have  seen  the  only  man  who  could  have 
committed  this  third  murder,  and  I  know  who  the  man 
is  who  now  lies  there  dead." 

"He  was  one  who  knew  the  secret?"  Vesta  asked  curi- 
ously. 

"He  was  one  of  three  who  searched,"  Stanley  an- 
swered. "You  need  waste  no  pity  on  him  for  he  shared 
in  the  attack  on  Paul  Copeland,  and  he  was  murdered 

198 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


last  night  on  the  scene  of  the  crime,  because  one  of  his 
partners  believed  he  had  betrayed  the  interests  of 
the  rest." 

"They  quarreled?"  Vesta  asked,  struck  by  the  inti- 
macy of  Waring's  knowledge. 

"Yes,"  he  replied;  "and  in  that  lies  my  best  safe- 
guard. These  men  no  longer  trust  each  other,  and  with 
each  crime  the  situation  becomes  more  desperate  for 
them  and  more  likely  to  lead  to  another  rupture." 

With  Stanley  Waring's  view  of  the  situation  Vesta 
Copeland  had  to  be  content. 

Meanwhile,  in  Missingham,  rumor  floated  round  the 
town,  the  plain  facts  of  the  story  growing  fabulously 
as  they  were  told  and  retold,  until  they  bore  no  rela- 
tion to  the  truth  so  far  as  it  emerged.  The  police  ar- 
rived hot  foot  from  the  market  town  nearby,  and  were 
busy  getting  what  suggestions  they  could  glean  to- 
gether with  a  view  to  piecing  up  the  strange  mystery 
that  Fate  had  wound  about  the  quiet  life  of  Missing- 
ham.  Late  in  the  evening  a  few  newspaper  men  drifted 
into  the  village  from  London,  attracted  by  the  possi- 
bilities indicated  by  a  second  murder  following  rapidly 
upon  the  previous  unexplained  crime.  And  all  through 
the  evening  Stanley  Waring  remained  at  home,  striving 
by  his  manner  to  reassure  Vesta  Copeland. 

During  the  evening  he  had  time  to  study  the  further 
details  of  the  murder  of  Mr.  James,  the  lawyer,  in  his 
rooms  at  Temple  Court,  and  spent  the  hours  after  the 
ladies  of  the  school-house  had  retired  in  considering  the 
possible  relationship  of  the  two  crimes  to  the  plans  of 
the  Red  Colonel. 

Of  one  thing  he  was  now  certain.     The  Red  Colonel 

199 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


was  moving  rapidly  and  quickly.  Each  one  of  his  ac- 
tions was  a  challenge  to  Waring.  The  time  had  come 
for  him  to  act  with  the  same  swift  silence  and  to  pit 
his  brain  fearlessly  against  the  relentless  cunning  of 
this  leader  in  the  underworld  of  crime. 

As  if  to  confirm  his  judgment,  two  incidents  hap- 
pened the  next  morning. 

The  first  letter  he  opened  was  addressed  from  32 
Beddoes  Street,  and  signed  by  George  Delane.  In  a 
flowing,  cultured  hand,  Mr.  Delane,  the  tenant,  said  he 
would  be  charmed  to  have  Stanley  overlook  Miss  Cope- 
land's  property,  and  suggested  the  afternoon  of  the 
day  of  the  receipt  of  the  letter,  as  he  was  going  away 
for  some  days. 

Stanley  Waring,  looking  over  the  letter,  was  struck 
by  its  easy  civility  and  decided  to  go  to  town  at  once. 

Just  as  he  was  rising  from  the  breakfast  table  the 
maid  brought  in  a  card. 

"The  gentleman  is  waiting,"  she  said,  standing  at  his 
elbow. 

Waring  read  the  card.  It  bore  the  name  of  Victor 
Ganton,  and  underneath  were  printed  the  words,  The 
Daily  Intelligence,  the  title  of  a  leading  daily  paper. 

"A  newspaper  man,"  Stanley  Waring  said  to  himself, 
dubiously,  wondering  what  the  caller  could  have  to  do 
with  himself. 

"Ask  Mr.  Ganton  to  wait,"  he  added  aloud.  "I  will 
see  him  in  a  few  minutes." 


CHAPTER    XXI 

WHEN  Stanley  Waring    went  to  the    reception 
room  into  which  Victor  Ganton  had  been 
shown,  he   found  himself  confronted  by  a 
man  of  considerable  personality. 

The  newspaper  reporter  was  a  tall,  lean,  tired-look- 
ing man.  Indeed  the  lean  quality  about  him  was  the 
most  striking  feature.  He  had  a  long  lean  head,  a 
long  lean  body,  and  long  lean  legs.  The  face  was 
chiefly  remarkable  because  the  whole  effect  produced 
by  the  expression  was  one  of  careless,  expressionless 
indifference.  The  color  of  the  skin  suggested  a  man 
who  had  never  had  enough  sleep.  A  long  straggling 
moustache  softened,  and  indeed  hid,  the  outline  of  a 
strong,  rugged  mouth.  The  voice  of  the  man  was  a 
flat  monotone.  When  Ganton  asked  questions  he  put 
them  in  tones  which  seemed  to  indicate  that  he  found 
the  task  of  even  thinking  them  out  a  horrible  bore. 
When  he  listened  to  the  answers,  his  languid  air  of  in- 
attention implied  that  he  had  lost  interest  in  his  own 
questions  long  before  he  heard  the  replies. 

Ganton  was  a  special  writer  on  The  Daily  Intelli- 
gence, whose  business  in  life  was  to  "investigate  crimes" 
for  his  paper.  For  this  work  he  drew  a  heavy  salary — 
a  salary  rarely  paid  to  newspaper  men.  People  who 
knew  this  and  did  not  watch  his  work  wondered  how 
he  earned  such  a  salary  and  why  he  did  not  lose  his 
appointment.  Those  who  employed  him  and  knew  his 

201 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


work  did  not  wonder — they  knew.  In  his  own  field 
Ganton  was  a  genius.  This  seeming  air  of  indifference 
was  an  elaborate  cloak  serving  to  disarm.  Behind  the 
tired,  sleepy  mask  of  a  face  he  turned  to  the  world 
was  a  singularly  alert  and  resolute  brain.  No  man 
could  look  more  jaded  than  Ganton  and  at  the  same 
time  be  more  wide  awake.  His  vigilant  brain  was  capable 
both  of  concentration  and  insight  and  his  manner,  de- 
liberately studied,  suggested  he  lacked  both. 

As  Waring  advanced  toward  Ganton,  the  reporter's 
languid  manner  at  first  sight  deceived  him.  He  saw 
the  long  gray  face  and  the  lean  body,  noted  the  relaxa- 
tion of  the  slim  figure  as  Ganton  reclined  lazily  in  an 
easy-chair,  and  observed  that,  while  he  was  well  dressed, 
Ganton's  clothes  had  signs  of  inattention  to  brushing 
and  pressing  about  them,  sufficient  to  imply  that  he 
sometimes  slept  in  them. 

Waring,  during  the  last  few  weeks,  had  had  to  sup- 
plement a  taste  for  analysis,  developed  during  his  hos- 
pital training,  by  much  clear  reasoning  and  close  ob- 
servation. He  had  become  impressed  by  the  resources 
of  the  Red  Colonel  to  such  an  extent  that  every 
stranger  had  to  pass  a  close  critical  inspection.  War- 
ing had  begun  to  take  nothing  for  granted.  And  he 
was  not  deceived  by  Ganton's  professional  manner  and, 
indeed,  realized  the  possibilities  of  the  man  before  he 
spoke.  He  knew,  however  indifferent  Ganton  might 
seem,  the  keen  gray  eyes  of  the  man  were  sleeplessly 
vigilant. 

Ganton  on  his  part  realized,  as  Waring  stepped 
toward  him,  that  Waring  was  out  of  the  run  of  the 
men  he  examined,  and  would  not  be  "easy" — a  word 

202 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Ganton  reserved  for  men  who  would  part  with  the 
information  he  most  desired  without  calling  for  any 
exertion  of  his  own  mental  force. 

Waring  looked  from  the  card  to  Ganton,  and  Gan- 
ton, by  a  slow  movement  of  his  lazy  length  of  frame, 
rose  from  the  easy  chair. 

"Mr.  Stanley  Waring,"  Ganton  said,  indifferently. 
"Dr.  Stanley  Waring." 

"Yes,"  answered  Waring.  "I  am  at  a  loss  to  know 
what  business  you  have  with  me,"  he  added,  with  a 
smile. 

"You  have  noted  I  am  on  the  staff  of  The  Daily  In- 
telligence," Ganton  drawled.  "Point  of  fact,  sir,  my 
wretched  game  in  life  is  to  investigate  crime.  I  am  a 
sort  of  ink-stained  detective,  unofficial,  and,  if  I  may 
say  so,  successful,  if  I  get  the  complete  story  before 
the  police  have  started  guessing." 

Waring  nodded  his  head  appreciatively. 

"Yes — I  guessed  that,"  he  said.  "How  does  your 
mission  affect  me?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  Ganton  said.  "I'm  down  here 
looking  into  this  Wayside  Lodge  crime.  I  was  here 
over  the  last  one.  I  have  a  sort  of  notion  you  might 
be  able  to  help  me." 

"How?"  asked  Waring. 

The  other's  voice  grew  more  indifferent.  His  spoken 
words  were  clipped  and  slovenly.  He  seemed  to  be 
tired  with  the  very  thought  of  putting  the  question. 

"My  idea  is  you  might  tell  me  something  about  the 
er — little  red  cross." 

A  week  before  Waring,  faced  by  a  query  so  closely 
relating  to  his  own  thoughts,  would  have  flushed  and 

203 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


grown  visibly  embarrassed.  Now,  so  great  had  be- 
come the  need  for  self-control,  his  only  feeling  was  one 
of  added  respect  for  the  lounging  man  who  masked  a 
vital  question  with  such  sublime  indifference.  He  shot 
a  quick  glance  at  the  tired-looking  reporter  who  ap- 
peared to  have  slept  in  his  clothes,  and  momentarily 
found  the  seemingly  lazy  eyes  submitting  him  to  a 
deadly  scrutiny.  It  was  only  a  glimpse,  for  the  keen 
eyes  grew  vague  and  the  glance  wandered  off  into  an 
indifferent  survey  of  the  features  of  the  room.  War- 
ing's  manner  did  not  change. 

"I  am  afraid,"  Waring  began,  "you  have  me  at  a 
slight  disadvantage.  I  do  not  quite  see  what  you 
mean." 

"No  ?"  the  other  said,  as  if  the  matter  were  of  slight 
importance.  "It  occurred  to  me  you  might  have 
known.  The  little  red  cross  is  a  feature  I  find  peculiar. 
I  thought  it  might  have  puzzled  you." 

Stanley  Waring  did  not  answer.  He  had  suffered  a 
close,  indirect  cross-examination  at  the  hands  of  the 
Red  Colonel,  and  he  knew  now,  as  he  knew  then,  Gan- 
ton,  with  a  different  manner,  was  there  to  ask  vital 
questions  as  though  they  were  mere  trifles,  light  as  air 
— thistledown,  borne  along  by  the  drifting  breeze. 

"You  have  nothing  to  say  about  the  cross — the  little 
red  cross?"  the  reporter  asked,  idly. 

"No — your  question  conveys  no  significance  to  me 
beyond  the  fact  that  a  red  cross  was  upon  the  fore- 
head of  Paul  Copeland,  the  first  man  who  was  murdered 
in  Wayside  Lodge." 

"Yes — that  is  why  I  came  to  you,"  Ganton  said, 
quietly.  "I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  there  are  red 

204 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


crosses  on  the  face  of  the  dead  man  who  lies  at  Way- 
side Lodge  now.    You  have  heard  that." 

"I  have  heard  of  the  murder,  but  I  have  not  heard 
any  of  the  details,"  Stanley  countered. 

A  slow  smile  passed  over  Ganton's  impassive  face — 
it  might  have  been  an  expression  of  reluctant  admira- 
tion. 

"Ah! — it's  no  use,  then,"  he  said,  slowly.  "But 
here  is  another  odd  thing.  That  solicitor,  Mr.  James 
— the  man  found  shot  in  Temple  Court  last  night — 
had  the  same  mark  upon  his  face." 

"I  have  no  details  of  the  occurrence,"  Waring  an- 
swered, quietly. 

Again  Waring  noted  the  smile  flickering  on  Gan- 
ton's face.  Again  he  gathered  an  impression  that  Gan- 
ton  had  tried  another  fly  and  was  smiling  with  an  ap- 
preciation for  the  fish  that  would  not  rise. 

"You  do  not  trust  me,  Mr.  Waring,"  Ganton  said, 
almost  sadly. 

"Again  the  advantage  is  yours,"  Waring  replied.  "I 
do  not  quite  see  the  drift  of  your  suggestion." 

The  other  man  rose  as  if  he  had  suddenly  lost  inter- 
est in  the  interview. 

"I  think  I  must  be  pushing  on,"  he  said,  at  last.  "I 
have  a  lot  of  ground  to  cover  to-day." 

Though  he  had  risen  to  go,  Ganton  still  lingered, 
and  had  apparently  forgotten  his  immediate  object. 
When  he  spoke  again  he  seemed  to  be  thinking  aloud. 

"Don't  you  think  it  peculiar  that  three  men  should 
lose  their  lives  in  so  short  a  period  and  should  each  be 
marked,  after  death,  in  the  same  way?"  he  asked, 
dreamily. 

205 


THE   RED   COLONEL, 


"Yes — I  do,"  Waring  admitted,  watching  his  man 
closely.  "I  certainly  do,  if  the  facts  are  as  you  sug- 
gest." 

"Yes — yes,"  said  Ganton,  the  matter  apparently 
growing  of  less  consequence.  "You  do  not  know  the 
facts ;  no,  evidently,  you  do  not  know  the  facts.  But 
they  are  certainly  peculiar.  You  must  excuse  me  for 
troubling  you,  but  I  had  an  odd  notion — that  is  all.  I 
thought,  knowing  Copeland  as  you  did,  you  might  have 
a  line  on  these  strange  happenings,  but  I  am  mistaken 
— yes,  yes,  I'm  wrong.  You  will  excuse  me  for  troub- 
ling you.  I  figured  it  out  this  way.  I'm  rather  old  at 
this  game."  Ganton's  voice  grew  more  weary  as  he 
went  on.  "I  was  up  against  it  twenty-five  years  ago 
in  New  York.  A  cub  reporter  in  a  big  city  sees  a 
lot,  you  know,  and — well,  I  had  a  taste  for  nosing  mys- 
teries. And  I  remember  a  set  of  murders,  and  there 
was  a  red  cross  in  all  of  them.  And  there  was  a  Red 
Colonel.  I  suppose  you  have  never  heard  of  the  Red 
Colonel — eh  ?"  The  narrative  tailed  off  into  a  patheti- 
cally indifferent  query. 

Again,  for  a  second,  Waring  saw  Ganton's  wander- 
ing glance  resting  on  him  with  a  fixed,  scrutinizing 
gleam. 

"No;  no,  you  would  not,"  Ganton  went  on  in  his 
dreamy  monotone.  "You  are  too  young,  and  yet — 
yes,  I  thought  you  might  have  heard  from  Copeland. 
But  I  got  a  line  on  them  in  New  York — there  was  the 
Red  Colonel,  and  a  man  they  called  the  Warbler,  and 
there  was — this  man  Copeland  who  died — and  there 
was  also  a  man  named  Cunning." 

"All  this  is  very  interesting,"  Waring  said,  grudg- 
206 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


ingly.     "You  say  you  investigated  Copeland's  death?" 

"Yes,"  said  Ganton,  indifferently. 

"Well,  I  think  the  matter  so  interesting  that  I  am 
surprised  you  did  not  tell  the  story  at  the  time  in  The 
Daily  Intelligence,"  Waring  said,  smoothly. 

"Ah!"  ejaculated  Ganton,  and  his  voice  suddenly 
changed.  There  was  a  shade  more  snap  in  it.  "I 
thought  I  should  interest — you." 

He  dwelt  with  a  slight  stress  on  the  pronoun. 

"Though  I  had  a  line  on  them,  I  never  saw  the  Red 
Colonel.  I  never  saw  Copeland  until  he  was  dead.  I 
never  saw  Cunning.  But  I  did  get  a  straight  look  at 
the  Warbler,"  Ganton  continued.  "When  Copeland 
went  out,  I  knew  the  old  gang  were  at  work,  and  I 
have  been  on  the  story  ever  since.  I  did  not  tell  the 
details  in  The  Daily  Intelligence  because  I  know  a 
bigger  story  lies  behind;  and  the  Red  Cross  will  come 
again  and  again  before  I  tell  the  history  of  the  Red 
Four.  I  suppose  you  have  never  thought  you  might 
be  marked  by  it — eh?" 

Ganton  fired  his  last  question  as  if  it  were  a  mere 
grim  afterthought. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  Stanley  asked,  sternly. 

"Because  I  know,"  Ganton  answered,  and  his  mask 
of  indifference  had  slipped  away.  "I  have  a  line  on  the 
Warbler.  I  have  come  to  you  believing  your  innocent 
knowledge  of  Copeland  may  have  put  you  onto  a  live 
wire  I  could  also  handle.  No  use — eh;  no  use?" 

Stanley,  strangely  impressed,  did  not  answer. 

"You  are  silent,"  Ganton  said,  and  once  again  the 
faintest  of  smiles  flickered  on  his  pale  features.  "Your 
sort  of  face  does  not  lie  if  there  is  a  way  out." 

207 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"I  can  only  say  I'  refuse  to  be  drawn  into  this 
strange  story,"  Waring  answered.  "It  may  be  as  you 
say;  but  the  onus  of  proof  is  on  you.  My  connection 
with  Copeland  has  taken  me  far  enough  into  this  under- 
world of  crime.  I  have  no  taste  for  a  further  examina- 
tion of  your  mystery — attractive  as  you  make  it,  if  I 
may  say  so." 

"You  cannot  help  me?"  Ganton  urged,  and  he  had 
dropped  his  indirect  method — the  mask  of  unconcern. 

"No,"  Waring  replied,  positively. 

"I  thought  so,  Dr.  Waring,"  Ganton  said,  coolly. 
"If  I  may  say  so,  you  are  discreet.  You  know  what 
you  are  up  against.  In  the  main,  I  agree  with  your 
decision.  You  do  not  trust  me,  and — you  desire  some 
proof  of  my  right  to  cut  into  your  game.  I  accept 
your  attitude." 

"But  do  you  not  think  there  may  be  some  mistake 
on  your  part  about  what  you  are  pleased  to  call  my 
game?"  Waring  said,  surprised  at  the  man's  statement. 

"No,"  Ganton  answered,  positively.  "I  never  make 
mistakes.  I  will  not  press  you  now,  Dr.  Waring.  I 
would  prefer  you  to  think  the  matter  over.  I  am  a 
judge  of  men.  It  may  sound  like  boasting,  but  I  am, 
and  I  know  an  oyster  at  sight.  I  shall  come  to  you 
again,  and  when  we  meet  we  shall  deal — be  sure  of 
that.  I  will  prove  to  you  where  I  stand  by  my  actions. 
I  know  you  are  in  the  game  to  stay  there,  and  the  op- 
portunity of  proving  my  integrity  will  come.  In  the 
meantime,  I  have  several  loose  ends  here  in  Missingham, 
and,  with  your  permission,  I'll  see  how  far  I  can  work 
them  with  profit.  Good-by." 

The  long  newspaper  man  held  out  his  hand. 
208 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Stanley  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  put  out  his 
own  and  the  two  men  shook. 

Ganton's  words,  on  leaving,  were  very  suggestive. 

"Do  you  know,  I  had  an  odd  notion  you  would  not 
shake,"  he  said,  referring  to  their  parting  hand  clasp. 
"I  have  you  figured  out  as  a  man  who  sees  every 
stranger  as  the  Red  Colonel  or  one  of  his  hirelings. 
I  guess  you  shivered  at  the  possibility  of  a  handshake, 
believing  it  a  first  step  to  putting  you  down.  Well — 
I  don't  blame  you.  I  have  been  next  to  this  lot  before, 
and  you  will  want  to  keep  your  eyes  peeled  and  your 
wool  on  if  you  are  going  into  this  on  the  right  side. 
So  long,  doctor!" 

Without  another  word,  the  man  left  Stanley,  who 
followed  him  to  the  hall  and  watched  the  long  figure 
stroll  lazily  out  of  the  garden  into  the  quiet  road 
leading  to  JV^issingham. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

STANLEY  WARING  walked  into  32  Beddoes 
Street  in  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day.  Bed- 
does  Street  is  a  typical  West  End  thoroughfare, 
with  many  fine  town  houses,  prosperous  in  their  way, 
but  in  no  wise  aping  the  splendor  of  Bayswater  or  Park 
Lane. 

Number  32  was  a  house  no  more  nor  less  distinctive 
than  the  rest.  It  was  a  stone-fronted  construction, 
some  four  stories  in  height,  built  on  a  plan  peculiar  to 
London.  The  basement  was  fenced  with  an  iron  rail- 
ing, an  opening  in  which  gave  access  to  tradesmen. 
The  terse  announcement  "no  bottles"  appeared  on  a 
card  displayed  in  the  door  leading  to  the  kitchen.  The 
rest  of  the  house  was  built  on  the  same  familiar  plan. 
The  window  of  the  ground  floor  room  was  flat  to  the 
wall;  above,  on  the  drawing-room  floor,  the  two  win- 
dows formed  tiny  bows  and  were  protected  by  a  bal- 
cony; above  were  two  bedroom  floors. 

Number  32  Beddoes  Street  looked  a  snug  town  house 
of  the  average  type,  capable  of  being  used  by  a  family 
for  a  season  in  town  and  large  enough  to  permit  of 
entertaining  on  a  fairly  ambitious  scale.  There  were 
signs  of  prosperity  about.  The  stonework  was  newly 
colored.  All  the  windows  were  fitted  with  plant  boxes, 
and  these,  no  doubt,  rioted  with  the  color  of  a  succes- 
sion of  blooms  in  the  summer.  The  house,  judged  by 
the  glimpses  one  might  get  of  the  interior  of  the  lower 

210 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


rooms  from  the  outside,  was  richly  furnished  on  con- 
ventional lines.  There  was  nothing  secretive  or  sinis- 
ter about  the  place ;  indeed,  all  the  curtains  were  drawn 
well  back,  and  gave  to  the  premises  an  air  of  frankly 
challenging  the  criticism  of  those  outside.  Despite  the 
amiable  character  and  conventionally  respectable  ap- 
pearance of  Number  32,  Waring  rang  the  doorbell  with 
a  quickening  of  the  pulse  that  suggested  he  was  just  a 
little  excited. 

A  trim  housemaid  opened  the  door — a  personable, 
attractive  girl,  and  the  sort  of  servant  one  would  ex- 
pect to  see  in  a  prosperous,  well-kept  home  of  good 
repute. 

Waring  stated  his  business  and  was  shown  into  a 
dining  room,  which  he  examined  carefully  in  the  inter- 
val of  waiting.  For  the  first  time  Waring  experienced 
a  chill  of  disappointment.  He  had  come  there  firmly 
believing  the  house  would  reveal  some  portion  of  Paul 
Copeland's  secret.  He  found  himself  asking  the  simple 
question,  "why."  His  only  guide  had  been  the  one 
unilluminating  line,  Fl — 32  Bed — R.  M.,  printed  under 
Copeland's  seemingly  meaningless  design.  The  signifi- 
cance of  the  central  "32  Bed"  had  alone  drawn  him 
to  this  house,  but  for  the  first  time  Waring  paused  to 
wonder  how  far  his  investigations  were  likely  to  carry 
him,  with  more  than  a  strong  leaven  of  doubt. 

As  representing  a  new  owner,  he  had  a  right  to  look 
round — a  right  cordially  granted  by  the  unknown  ten- 
ant, George  Delane.  But  what  purpose  was  such  a 
tour  of  inspection  likely  to  serve  ?  There  was  certainly 
nothing  significant  about  the  room  into  which  he  had 
been  shown.  It  was  a  dining  room,  typical  of  any 

211 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


prosperous  household,  correct  rather  than  tasteful, 
following  the  conventional  ideas  of  furnishing  and  try- 
ing no  experiments.  Highly  polished  table,  flowers  in 
the  center;  heavy  substantial  chairs;  a  massive  side- 
board; quiet  but  rich  carpets  and  rugs,  a  few  easy 
chairs  by  the  fireplace,  and  a  number  of  conscientious 
pictures  on  the  walls.  Stanley  Waring  realized,  with  a 
chill  of  disappointment  cooling  his  anticipation,  that 
he  would  see  more  rooms  of  the  same  character,  cor- 
rectly furnished  for  their  different  purposes — and  noth- 
ing more.  And  he  admitted  he  had  no  real  justifica- 
tion for  expecting  to  see  anything  more  startling  and 
suggestive. 

He  was  busy  with  these  thoughts  when  the  door  sud- 
denly opened  and  a  man,  whose  footsteps  were  noise- 
less, came  into  the  room. 

Again  Stanley  Waring  was  disappointed.  The  new- 
comer was  a  manservant  in  a  neat,  unostentatious  liv- 
ery. He  looked  like  a  butler,  slightly  stout,  white  of 
face,  neatly  shaved,  and  scrupulously  well  brushed. 
His  manners  were  quiet  and  subdued,  but  .... 

Even  as  Waring  spoke  to  the  man  he  realized  there 
was  a  difference.  This  man  had  the  appearance  of  a 
servant — and  something  more.  Though  he  was  slightly 
stout,  he  was  a  big  man  and  strong.  Though  his  voice 
was  soft  and  keyed  to  a  deferential  pitch,  there  was  an 
edge  to  it.  The  lower  jaw  of  the  face  gave  to  the 
mouth  a  suggestion  that  here  was  not  a  subject  man,  a 
servant !  The  eyes  were  sunk  and  small,  ferret-like,  set 
under  heavy  brows.  There  was  a  curious,  sly,  observ- 
ant air  about  them — they  gave  a  suggestion  of  crafty 
watchfulness  and  some  cunning.  The  long  flat  nose 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


of  the  man  had  been  broken.  An  old  scar  still  held 
an  angry  color  on  the  flattened  bridge  and  the  contour 
had  departed  from  the  original  shape.  There  was  an- 
other scar  on  the  temple. 

A  man  who  has  had  adventures,  Waring  found  him- 
self thinking  as  he  noted  these  marks  suggesting  vio- 
lence on  the  face  of  a  man  who  appeared  to  be  a  quiet, 
respectful  servant. 

"I  came  by  permission  of  Mr.  Delane,"  Stanley  said 
to  the  servant.  As  he  spoke  he  held  out  the  letter 
suggesting  he  should  call.  "Mr.  Delane  kindly  gave 
me  permission  to  go  over  the  premises  on  behalf  of  the 
owner,  who  has  only  recently  undertaken  the  respon- 
sibility of  administering  her  own  properties." 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  man  answered.  "Mr.  Delane  told  me 
of  your  coming.  His  orders  were  I  should  show  you 
everything  you  desired  to  see  about  the  house.  Have 
you  any  special  desires?  Is  there  anything  you  par- 
ticularly wish  to  see?" 

Waring  was  confirmed  in  his  early  reading  of  the 
man's  character.  This  butler  was  no  automaton  of  a 
servant.  As  he  asked  the  questions,  his  little  eyes  were 
fixed  inquiringly  and  he  was  undoubtedly  scrutinizing 
Waring's  face. 

"No,"  answered  Waring.  "I  just  want  to  get  some 
idea  of  the  general  character  of  the  property.  The 
present  owner  is  not  familiar  with  this  house,  which 
happens  to  be  standing  in  her  name.  If  you  would 
just  show  me  over  the  rooms,  I  shall  be  obliged." 

"Yes,  sir." 

Without  further  speech,  the  butler  began  to  lead  the 
way  out  of  the  room. 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


"This  is  the  dining  room,  as  you  see,"  he  said,  wav- 
ing his  arm  to  take  in  the  room  they  were  leaving. 
"Behind,"  he  added,  "is  a  smaller  room.  We  use  it  as 
a  study,  lounge,  and  writing  room." 

He  opened  the  door  as  he  spoke.  Waring  glanced 
inside,  more  and  more  convinced  of  the  abortive  char- 
acter of  his  investigations.  The  proceedings  had  de- 
generated into  the  kind  of  thing  a  man  experiences  who 
has  "orders  to  view"  desirable  mansions  from  an  estate 
agent. 

Indeed,  Waring  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  his 
investigations  would  carry  him  but  little  further. 

On  the  first  floor  the  butler  passed  the  front  room. 

"That  is  the  drawing-room,"  he  said.  "This  is  a 
bachelor  house.  Mr. — er — Delane  lived  alone — so  the 
room  is  more  of  a  library  and  smoke  room  than  any- 
thing else.  Mr.  Delane's  tenant  is  in  there  now — it  is 
sublet,  you  know." 

Stanley  was  just  a  little  surprised  at  this  informa- 
tion. He  did  not  know.  But  he  dismissed  the  matter 
without  inquiry,  though  he  noticed  again  the  gleaming, 
crafty  eyes  were  watching  him  narrowly. 

"You  may  look  in  as  we  come  down,"  the  butler 
added,  moving  on  to  the  room  at  the  back. 

So  Stanley  was  piloted,  courteously  enough,  from 
floor  to  floor,  through  a  variety  of  rooms,  all  well  fur- 
nished, neatly  correct,  and  indicating  very  little  beyond 
an  obvious  and  solid  prosperity  on  the  part  of  the 
tenant. 

The  butler  opened  the  door,  said  what  the  room  was 
used  for,  stood  back,  and  left  Waring  to  look  inside. 
It  seemed  a  grotesque  itinerary  to  Waring,  who,  by  the 

214 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


time  they  were  getting  to  the  higher  floors,  began  to 
feel  very  much  like  a  house  agent's  assistant. 

All  the  time  he  was  conscious  of  the  close  scrutiny 
of  the  apparently  obsequious  male  servant.  Sometimes, 
turning  suddenly,  to  resume  his  progress  through 
the  house,  Waring  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  the 
man  had  almost  been  surprised  in  the  act  of  smiling  at 
him. 

"Billiard  room,"  the  butler  would  say,  opening  the 
door.  Then  they  were  in  the  bedrooms  and  then  near 
the  attics. 

"Servants'  bedrooms,"  the  attentive  butler  remarked, 
with  a  sweep  of  his  hands,  taking  it  for  granted  the 
intruder  would  not  desire  to  carry  his  investigations 
further. 

"Thank  you,"  answered  Waring.  "I  need  not  trou- 
ble you  to  open  them.  I  think  I  have  formed  a  satis- 
factory opinion  of  the  nature  of  the  property." 

"As  you  please,  sir." 

The  butler  led  the  way  down  the  stairs,  his  felt- 
covered  shoes  making  no  sound  on  the  thick  carpets. 

At  last  they  were  back  on  the  first  floor.  Stanley 
Waring  had  been  disappointed  by  the  possibilities  of 
his  search.  His  one  desire  was  to  leave  the  house  as 
soon  as  possible.  He  felt  too  much  like  an  aimless 
intruder  under  the  critical,  watchful  eye  of  the  butler. 
He  had  almost  overlooked  the  fact  that  there  was  a 
room  in  the  house  he  had  not  seen  and  was  passing  the 
door  on  his  way  to  the  hall. 

If  the  truth  must  be  told,  Waring  had  forgotten  the 
house,  the  butler  and  everything  about  the  place  as  he 
descended  the  stairs.  His  mind  was  working  over  the 

215 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


letters  and  figures  under  the  design.  He  had  vainly 
thought  they  formed  a  clew  and  that  access  to  32  Bed- 
does  Street  was  the  key  to  the  mystery.  He  was  run- 
ning the  line  over  in  his  mind — Fl — 32  Bed — R.  M. — 
and  wondering  in  his  own  mind  if  he  had  jumped  to 
an  abortive  conclusion. 

"One  moment,  sir,"  said  the  deferential  voice  at  his 
elbow.  "First  floor,  sir ;  you  did  not  see  the  drawing- 
room." 

Wai-ing's  mind  was  just  repeating  the  line  of  letters 
and  figures  he  believed  to  have  some  relation  to  the 
house  he  was  inspecting. 

"I  beg  your  pardon?"  he  said,  absently,  for  he  had 
not  distinctly  heard  the  suggestion. 

"First  floor,  sir,"  the  butler  repeated.  "You  did 
not  see  the  drawing-room." 

"You  said  it  was  occupied,"  Waring  answered.  "I 
don't  think  I  need  disturb  the  tenant." 

"Oh,  no  disturbance,  I  assure  you.  My  orders  were 
I  should  let  you  see  the  rooms  and  then  bring  you 
down  to  master.  I  think  he  desired  to  place  himself 
at  your  disposal,  sir ;  in  case  there  were  any  questions 
you  might  like  to  ask." 

"It  seems  a  pity  to  trouble,  Mr. — er "  Waring 

was  saying  aloud.  His  brain  was  working  once  again 
over  the  clew,  "Fl— 32  Bed— R.  M." 

Then  suddenly  Waring  found  himself  very  wide 
awake. 

"Why,  how  very  stupid  of  me,"  Waring  said,  aloud, 
the  words  escaping  him  involuntarily. 

The  other  was  watching  him  closely. 

"Pardon,  sir;  I  do  not  quite  understand,"  the  man 

216 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


said,  and  Waring  noticed  the  rasp  in  his  voice,  while 
his  eyes  indicated  strained  attention. 

"Ah! — I  was  not  speaking  to  you,"  Waring  an- 
swered, conciliatory  at  once.  "I  was  thinking  of  some- 
thing I  should  have  done  this  morning.  Perhaps  I 
ought  to  see  the  tenant,  since  he  is  so  obliging.  If 
you  will  find  out  whether  it  is  convenient  now,  I  shall 
be  .  ..." 

"Certainly,  sir." 

The  butler  knocked  on  the  closed  door. 

A  voice  inside  called  out,  "Come  in,"  peremptorily. 

For  a  minute  Waring  stood  alone  on  the  landing. 
He  could  hear  a  muttered  conversation  going  on  in 
the  room  between  the  man  inside  and  his  servant.  He 
paid  but  little  attention,  for  in  a  flash  of  inspiration, 
or  sudden  understanding,  Waring  had  read  a  meaning 
into  another  part  of  the  cryptic  line. 

"This  is  the  first  floor,"  he  was  saying  to  himself, 
silently.  "Fl — 32  Bed — R.  M.  Now  that  is  certainly 
significant.  Floor  one,  32  Beddoes  Street  makes  a 
little  more  sense  of  the  line,  whatever  'R.  M.'  may 
mean." 

His  interest  in  the  commonplace,  prosperous  town 
house  had  suddenly  grown  acute. 

At  that  moment  the  man  servant  came  back  to  the 
door  and  threw  it  open. 

"Come  in,  sir,"  he  said.  "Mr.  Gaythorne  will  see 
you." 

Stanley  Waring  did  not  hear  the  phrase;  he  was 
still  debating  in  his  own  mind  the  plausibility  of  his 
reading  of  the  first  two  sections  of  the  line  that  held 
Paul  Copeland's  secret. 

217 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


He  walked  forward  automatically  into  a  large  room 
crowded  with  furniture,  books  and  bric-a-brac.  In  a 
deep-seated  leather  chair  a  man  was  sitting  before  the 
fire,  his  legs  sprawling  out  to  the  beaten  brass  kerb. 
Waring  could  see  by  his  shoulders  and  arms  that  the 
occupier  of  the  room  was  wearing  a  dressing  gown. 
It  was  of  heavy  blue  flannel,  with  white  piping  orna- 
menting the  collar  and  cuffs.  A  strong  odor  of  cigar 
smoke  hung  about  the  apartment. 

"Mr.  Waring,  sir,"  said  the  servant. 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  a  voice,  which  Waring  recognized  at 
once.  "Mr.  Waring." 

The  figure  in  the  chair  stood  up,  rising  slowly,  and 
turned  toward  Waring. 

"Why!  of  all  the  odd  coincidences,"  the  man  said, 
languid,  smooth  and  with  an  easy  suggestion  of  pleas- 
ure in  his  address.  "Mr.  Waring  of  Missingham,  my 
friendly  doctor  chap.  Well,  well;  this  is  unexpected. 
Won't  you  take  a  seat?" 

As  he  spoke,  Gaythorne  made  a  sign  to  the  servant, 
who  instantly  withdrew,  and  Stanley,  surprised  beyond 
measure,  but  by  a  superb  effort  of  control  hiding  any 
extreme  manifestation  of  wonder  at  the  sudden  sharp 
turn  of  events,  found  himself  confronting  the  man  he 
had  reason  to  believe  was  the  Red  Colonel. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

THE  sight  of  Henry  Gaythorne  turning  to  greet 
Waring  in  the  house,  32  Beddoes  Street,  was 
certainly  a  blow  to  the  latter.  Gaythorne  was 
smiling  with  the  easy  cosmopolitan  nonchalance  of  a 
man  accustomed  to  mix  among  his  fellows.  Waring 
believed,  as  he  met  the  man's  watchful  eyes,  that  he 
was  more  than  pleased  with  the  surprise  he  had  en- 
gineered, though  his  manner  was  studiously  correct. 
The  first  minute  of  their  meeting,  under  circumstances 
so  unexpected  from  Waring's  point  of  view,  put 
a  strain  on  all  the  young  doctor's  nervous  force. 
His  great  effort  was  to  abstain  from  showing  un- 
due interest  in  what  he  had  to  recognize  as  a  casual 
meeting. 

Gaythorne's  first  words  were  in  the  nature  of  a 
challenge. 

"You  are  surprised  to  see  me?"  he  said,  smiling  so 
that  his  white  teeth  showed  and  the  curl  of  the  underlip 
was  accentuated. 

"Yes,"  Waring  confessed,  and  as  he  spoke  he  was 
pleased  to  find  his  own  voice  even  and  assured.  "From 
Missingham  and  the  Black  Lion  to  the  West  End  and 
Beddoes  Street  is  a  far  cry.  I  must  admit  this  seems 
to  be  an  unusual  coincidence." 

"Strange  things  happen  in  this  world,  Waring," 
Gaythorne  said,  still  smiling,  but  there  was  an  ugly, 
significant  quality  in  his  words. 

219 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"Yes,"  admitted  Waring,  coolly.  "The  world  has 
its  mysteries." 

Gaythorne's  flickering,  birdlike  eyes  were  watching 
Waring  closely,  and  Stanley  felt  his  reply  had  been 
weighed  by  one  who  examined  the  most  casual  phrase 
to  see  if  menace  lurked  behind  it. 

"After  all,"  said  Gaythorne,  smoothly,  "the  matter 
is  not  so  strange  as  one  might  suppose  at  first  sight. 
I  have  been  here  for  three  years.  I  took  over  the 
house  from  the  man  you  came  to  see — a  Mr.  Delane, 
was  it  not?  In  fact,  Delane  acted  for  me,  as  I  was 
out  of  town." 

"Yes,"  answered  Stanley.  "I  received  my  first  inti- 
mation that  the  place  had  been  sublet  a  minute  ago, 
from  your  man.  I  scarcely  expected  to  find  the  ten- 
ant to  be  someone  I  knew." 

"And  you  are  my  landlord — eh?"  asked  Gaythorne, 
shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"No,"  corrected  Waring.  "I  am  acting  for  your 
landlord,  Miss  Copeland.  I  discovered  this  was  her 
property  from  some  old  deeds." 

The  smile  on  Gaythorne's  face  was  not  exactly 
pleasant.  His  manner  was  careless,  but  there  was  no 
concealing  the  eagerness  of  his  following  question. 

"Copeland!"  he  said.  "Ah!  I  remember.  He  was 
the  man  who  was  murdered — the  man  we  talked  about 
the  night  you  attended  to  me  at  the  Black  Lion.  Did 
he  leave  a  will?" 

"No,"  answered  Waring,  casually.  "There  were  cer- 
tain properties  in  his  daughter's  name.  We  heard 
of  them  from  a  Mr.  James,  a  solicitor  of  Temple 
Court." 

220 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"Ah !"  Gaythorne  ejaculated.  He  had  followed  War- 
ing's  answer  acutely.  The  younger  man  was  not  cer- 
tain whether  his  exclamation  indicated  doubt  or  relief. 
But  Waring  had  no  difficulty  in  following  his  train  of 
thought. 

"James!"  Gaythorne  said,  slowly.  "Let  me  see — 
James — solicitor,  was  he  not?  The  name  seems  famil- 
iar. James,  Temple  Court,  solicitor.  I  seem  to  re- 
member the  name  and  the  address." 

He  paused  and  looked  questioningly  at  Waring. 

Stanley  refrained  from  speaking.  He  had  fenced 
with  Gaythorne  before.  Now,  deliberately,  he  refused 
to  help  the  man  by  giving  him  a  lead.  There  was  an 
irritable  note  in  Gaythorne's  smooth  voice  when  he 
spoke  again  and  the  snarling  underlip  seemed  to  curl 
threateningly. 

"James,  Temple  Court,  solicitor,"  Gaythorne 
snapped  the  fingers  of  his  finely  modeled  hand — the 
hand  so  like  a  claw.  "Ah,  yes!  I  have  it.  He  was 
murdered,  too.  I  read  the  account  in  the  paper  yes- 
terday. That's  it — I  thought  my  memory  had  pigeon- 
holed some  facts  about  Mr.  James,  solicitor." 

"Yes,"  Stanley  said,  measuring  his  words.  "Mr. 
James  was  shot  dead  in  his  own  office." 

"That  is  odd,"  Gaythorne  rejoined,  coolly.  "There 
seems  to  be  a  sinister  influence  playing  round  this 
man  Copeland  and  his  friends.  Is  there  any  indication 
likely  to  identify  the  assailants?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  Waring  replied.  "I  have  scarcely 
had  the  time  to  investigate  the  details." 

Gaythorne  looked  up  sharply. 

"Investigate,"  he  said.  "Why  use  the  word  investi- 
221 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


gate?  Are  you  contemplating  the  possibility  of  turn- 
ing detective?" 

The  question  was  put  smilingly,  but  the  challenge 
was  obvious.  There  was  a  steely  quality  in  Gaythorne's 
voice.  The  flickering  eyes  ceased  to  waver.  They 
looked  on  Stanley  with  a  fierce  interest — with  a  reso- 
lute suggestion  of  challenge.  Driven  by  a  reckless  im- 
pulse, Waring  decided  to  meet  it. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  said  coolly,  meeting  the  direct 
glance.  "Circumstances  are  making  me  curious.  I  am 
inclined  to  recall  a  theory  you  held  out  the  night  you 
stayed  at  the  Black  Lion — the  interesting  theory  stated 
by  your  friend,  Harrison.  You  remember,  he  sug- 
gested the  murder  of  Copeland  was  similar  in  its  de- 
tails to  a  series  of  crimes  committed  many  years  ago 
by  a  gang  you  described  as  the  Red  Four." 

"Ah !"  said  Gaythorne,  the  rigid  air  of  attention  giv- 
ing place  to  a  polite  smile.  "Is  there  some  similarity 
about  the  murder  of  Copeland  and  the  end  of  this 
man — er — er — James  ?" 

"Yes — there  is  the  appearance  of  a  red  cross,"  War- 
ing answered. 

The  other  still  smiled. 

"And  there  is  a  further  interesting  development," 
Waring  added,  speaking  slowly  and  measuring  his  man 
with  a  searching  glance.  "Another  body  was  found  in 
Wayside  Lodge  yesterday — a  man  who  had  evidently 
met  his  death  overnight.  He  had  been  strangled  by 
the  same  curious  thug-like  method  used  to  kill  Paul 
Copeland." 

"You  don't  say  so?"  Gaythorne  answered,  his  voice 
even,  suave,  and  betraying  polite  interest.  "Why,  that 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


would  make  Harrison's  theory  interesting — even  to 
you,"  he  added,  lazily. 

Waring  assented  by  inclining  his  head. 

"Who  was  the  third  murdered  man?"  Gaythorne 
asked.  His  smooth  voice  had  hardened  again.  The 
query  rang  with  an  ill-concealed  menace. 

"He  has  not  been  identified,"  Waring  said. 

"Can  no  one  recognize  him?  Surely "  Gay- 
thorne stopped.  His  manner  betrayed  a  subtle,  in- 
direct quality  of  relief. 

"That  is  all  I  have  heard,"  Waring  said,  speaking 
as  if  he  were  losing  interest  in  the  subject. 

Gaythorne  suddenly  walked  the  length  of  the  cham- 
ber. There  was  something  stealthy  in  his  movements, 
as  his  feet  sidled  along  the  thick-carpeted  floor.  War- 
ing thought  of  a  tiger  confined  in  a  narrow  space.  Gay- 
thorne seemed  to  be  thinking  rapidly,  turning  over 
some  weighty  problem  in  his  mind,  and  his  big,  strong 
body  appeared  to  prowl  more  and  more  in  the  manner 
of  the  tiger  as  he  walked  irritably  up  and  down  the 
room.  One  thought  of  him  as  preparing  to  spring. 

"What  errand  brought  you  here,  Dr.  Waring?"  he 
asked,  at  last. 

"I  thought  I  ought  to  see  Miss  Copeland's  property. 
I  am  acting  for  her,"  Waring  replied. 

"You  were  interested  in  this  man  Copeland — eh?" 

"No — in  Miss  Copeland,"  Waring  corrected. 

Gaythorne  walked  the  length  of  the  room  once 
more. 

"I  don't  want  to  disturb  you,"  he  said,  at  length. 
"But,  as  Harrison  says,  this  business  is  sinister. 
James,  the  solicitor,  and  this  unknown  man!  Has  it 

223 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


occurred  to  you  that  people  connected  with  this  Paul 
Copeland  seem  to  be  running  grave  danger?" 

His  eyes  narrowed  as  he  asked  this  seemingly  casual 
question. 

"Yes,"  Waring  replied,  simply. 

"Don't  you  think  the  same  danger  applies  to  you?" 

The  question  was  as  pointed  as  Gaythorne  dared  to 
make  it. 

"Yes,"  answered  Waring. 

"Does  it  not  make  you  uneasy,"  Gaythorne  asked. 

"No,"  Waring  replied. 

"Copeland's  end  seems  to  have  cost  two  lives  al- 
ready," Gaythorne  added,  thoughtfully. 

The  words  sounded  to  Waring  like  a  threat. 

"You  mean  James  and  the  unknown  man?"  he  said. 

"Yes — two  lives,  as  I  read  the  situation." 

"The  murders  may  be  only  remarkable  coincidences," 
Waring  answered,  reflectively. 

Gaythorne  walked  the  length  of  the  room  twice.  The 
curl  on  the  cruel  underlip  had  grown  more  pronounced. 
It  made  Waring  think  of  a  dangerous  animal,  mad  with 
blood  lust. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  the  police?"  asked  Gaythorne, 
suddenly,  almost  fiercely. 

"I  know  so  little,"  Waring  answered.  "We  are  in 
the  realms  of  pure  conjecture.  And  besides " 

Waring  looked  Gaythorne  in  the  eyes. 

"Besides "  prompted  the  latter. 

"I  prefer  to  wait,"  Waring  answered,  his  voice  ring- 
ing with  a  stern  challenge. 

Gaythorne  stopped  in  his  perambulation  of  the  room. 
He  brought  himself  up  in  front  of  Waring.  The  easy, 

224 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


social  manner  he  had  adopted  seemed  to  have  fallen 
from  him,  as  if  it  were  a  mask  of  pretence,  dropped, 
discarded  as  useless. 

"You  know  more  than  you  confess,"  he  hissed,  sud- 
denly, and  once  again  Waring  thought  of  a  sinister 
tiger  preparing  to  spring. 

"I  fail  to  understand,"  Waring  answered,  easily. 

"I'll  put  the  cards  on  the  table,"  Gaythorne  said, 
speaking  rapidly,  a  harsh  note  in  his  voice.  "You  and 
I  are  fencing — meaninglessly.  You  think  you  know 
me.  I  think  I  know  you.  Copeland  gave  you  a  lead. 
You  are  the  only  man  left  who  could  know  the  secret 
this  Red  Colonel  may  want  revealed.  And,  if  you 
know,  you  are  aware  of  your  danger  and  you  realize 
what  I  mean." 

Waring's  pulses  drummed  as  he  caught  the  drift  of 
the  other's  purpose.  Gaythorne  was  throwing  off  his 
disguise.  The  Red  Colonel  was  declaring  war.  De- 
spite the  revelation  and  the  admissions  suddenly  made, 
Waring  maintained  a  stolid  silence. 

"You  cannot  connect  me  up  with  the  man  you  think 
I  am,"  Gaythorne  said.  "You  guess  in  the  dark,  but 
you  dare  not  unmask.  You  have  a  line  on  me  and  you 
cannot  draw  it.  You  know  me  as  the  Red  Colonel, 
but  you  cannot  prove  your  knowledge.  Gaythorne,  a 
reputed  member  of  society,  known  by  everyone  who  is 
worth  while,  and  the  Red  Colonel,  whose  past  is  buried 
twenty  years  deep,  cannot  be  brought  together — and 
you  know  it.  Where  do  you  stand?" 

"Here,"  said  Waring,  accepting  the  direct  challenge. 
"I  admit  nothing,  but  since  you  place  some  of  your 
cards  on  the  table,  I'll  throw  down  another.  I  know 

225 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


the  second  man  who  was  murdered  at  Wayside 
Lodge." 

"You  lie,"  Gaythorne  shouted,  savagely,  his  white 
teeth  gleaming,  as  the  snarl  deepened  on  his  coarse 
lips.  "Name  him — as  you  hope  for  safety,  name  him,  I 
say." 

"Your  chauffeur — Cunning,"  Waring  answered,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  Gaythorne's  glittering  pupils,  now  dilated 
with  surprise. 

With  a  bound,  Gaythorne  leaped  toward  the  mantel- 
piece and  stood  with  his  slender  fingers  covering  an 
electric  bell  push. 

"Now  we  know  where  we  stand,"  he  shouted, 
hoarsely.  "It's  war.  By  God,  sir;  you  stand  face  to 
face  with  death  this  very  moment." 

Waring's  face  did  not  change.  His  voice  was  tran- 
quil. 

"I  am  prepared  to  fight  for  my  life — here,"  he  said, 
evenly. 

"I  touch  this  bell  and  you  are  as  good  as  dead," 
Gaythorne  said,  angrily.  "I  could  snuff  out  your 
candle  in  a  second.  No  one  would  ever  know  and — that 
would  be  the  end  of  you." 

"Wrong,"  said  Waring  boldly,  his  eyes  eagerly  tak- 
ing in  every  detail  of  the  room.  "I  know  your  powers. 
I  even  respect  them.  But  I  am  sure  I  am  safe  here." 

The  Red  Colonel's  eyes  flickered  dangerously. 

"A  word  from  me  and  you  will  not  leave  this  house 
alive,"  he  growled,  all  the  savage  in  the  man  unleashed 
and  uppermost. 

"Speak  it,"  Waring  said,  coolly,  a  smile  on  his 
youthful  face.  By  some  reversion  to  type,  he  found 

226 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


himself  enjoying  the  grim  situation.  The  joy  of  the 
hunter  pitting  nerve  against  animal  cunning  in  a  tight 
corner  after  the  trail,  the  fight,  tautened  his  strong 
nerves. 

Gaythorne  hesitated,  his  eyes  fixed  menacingly  on 
Waring. 

"Why  do  you  dare  me?"  he  said,  hoarsely,  after 
some  seconds  of  silence. 

Waring  played  the  one  card  he  trusted — and 
won. 

"The  reputation  of  Henry  Gaythorne  has  been  care- 
fully built,  I  imagine,"  he  found  himself  saying  easily. 
"Three  people  know  I  came  here."  The  fact  was  not 
true,  but  he  made  the  statement  prompted  by  his  own 
faith  in  his  ability  to  read  the  situation.  "If  I  am 
missed,  they  will  inquire  here,  and  if  they  do — Gay- 
thorne, man  of  fashion  and  of  good  repute,  will  risk 
his  one  chance  of  security — his  social  position.  He 
will  become  again  the  Red  Colonel,  or  at  least  the  cen- 
ter of  ugly  inquiries." 

He  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  look  on  the  Red 
Colonel.  Something  about  the  shape  of  the  mantel- 
piece had  caught  his  eyes.  Absently,  his  brain  was 
working  over  the  unusual  quality  of  the  design — aim- 
lessly building  on  a  vague  idea.  And,  even  as  he  fol- 
lowed the  hazy  stream  of  speculation,  Waring  knew  he 
had  won.  Gaythorne  did  not  press  the  bell. 

"Yes,"  he  heard  the  man  saying,  tensely.  "You  are 
clever.  In  some  respects,  you  are  an  interesting  prob- 
lem." 

Gaythorne  showed  his  teeth  as  he  spoke. 

"I  shall  enjoy  fighting  you,"  he  went  on,  as  if  he 
227 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


had  answered  a  question.  "You  have  seen  the  house. 
Is  that  all  you  came  for?  Have  you  found  what  you 
wanted  here?" 

"I  have,"  Waring  said,  with  a  slow  smile. 

"Then  go,"  Gaythorne  answered,  a  threat  in  every 
word  he  spoke.  "Go,  and  depart  with  the  certain 
knowledge  that  you  have  looked  at  death.  And,  since 
you  are  so  confident,  think  as  you  go  that  every  hour, 
waking  or  asleep,  death  looks  at  you.  You  have  only 
seen  one  side  of  the  Red  Colonel,  and  you  can  prove 
nothing.  You  will  live  long  enough  to  realize  how 
true  is  the  proverb  that  fools  walk  where  angels  fear 
to  tread." 

He  pressed  the  button. 

The  pale-faced  butler,  with  the  eyes  of  a  ferret,  re- 
sponded instantly.  He  might  have  been  lingering  out- 
side the  door. 

"Show  Dr.  Waring  out,"  Gaythorne  said,  easily. 
"And  note  this,  Delane,  in  no  circumstances  is  he  to  be 
admitted  to  this  house  again." 

Stanley  Waring  smiled  on  Gaythorne  and,  with  a 
last  look  at  one  object  in  the  room,  turned  on  his  heel 
and  followed  Delane  to  the  door. 

The  butler  eyed  Waring  carefully  as  he  opened  the 
door  and  smiled.  It  costs  nothing  to  smile,  and  War- 
ing smiled  back  with  interest  and  offered  the  man  a 
sovereign. 

"If  I  were  you,"  Delane  said,  as  he  pocketed  the  coin 
furtively,  "I'd  die  first." 

The  words  sounded  grotesque  to  Waring,  but  they 
were  spoken  with  grim  significance. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  Waring  asked. 
228 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"Just  what  I  say,"  Delane  answered.  "Think  it 
over.  I  am  giving  you  a  useful  tip." 

Waring  walked  away,  thinking  rapidly.  Nor  was 
the  servant's  hint  all  he  had  to  preoccupy  his  attention, 
for  he  had  also  to  ponder  over  a  solution  to  the  mys- 
tery of  the  line  Fl — 32  Bed— R.  M.,  a  task  beset  with 
difficulties,  not  now  entirely  hopeless. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

NOW  began  Wai-ing's  real  task — to  connect  the 
Red  Colonel  with  any  surviving  member  of  the 
Red  Four,  to  discover  a  link  between  him  and 
the  three  violent  deaths  and  to  trace  any  movement 
associating  the  social  butterfly,  Gaythorne,  with  crime 
or  criminals  in  any  direction. 

All  the  afternoon  Waring  had  a  curious  sense  of 
being  followed.  He  went  his  way  about  the  desultory 
immediate  tasks  he  had  set  himself  without  betraying 
any  knowledge  that  he  was  under  observation. 

He  called  at  his  clubs  and  made  inquiries  about  Gay- 
thorne, and  all  produced  the  same  results.  Gossip  and 
reference  works  revealed  only  facts  of  good  repute. 
He  learned  of  Gaythorne's  family  connections — all  ir- 
reproachable. His  life  in  New  York  and  London  was, 
on  the  surface,  as  clear  as  an  open  book.  Gaythorne's 
pursuits  were  typical  of  those  favored  in  our  day  by 
the  man  of  wealth.  He  was  apparently  received  in 
the  most  exclusive  society  of  both  cities,  and  his 
occupations  were  largely  what  one  might  expect  from 
a  wealthy  man  of  fashion. 

Annually  Gaythorne  shot,  hunted,  and,  in  a  small 
way,  raced ;  his  connections  everywhere  being  reputable 
members  of  the  wealthier  sporting  set.  Gaythorne's 
coach,  running  daily  in  the  season,  was  a  feature  of 
the  Brighton  Road,  and  the  owner  often  acted  as  whip. 
Gaythorne  himself  appeared  in  the  approved  fashion- 

230 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


able  resorts,  and  was  duly  photographed  about  his 
pleasures  with  other  celebrities.  Generally  all  the  evi- 
dence Waring  could  collect  showed  Gaythorne  to  be  a 
man  of  fashion,  dabbling  in  sport,  politics,  and  even 
philanthropy,  and  concerned  only  with  the  correct 
thing  and  his  place  in  the  social  swim. 

Nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  pursuing  Gaythorne's 
career  on  the  surface.  The  more  Waring  investigated, 
the  more  invulnerable  the  wealthy  bachelor  seemed  to 
become.  He  had  worked  hard,  apparently,  to  secure 
social  repute.  The  general  opinion,  so  far  as  Waring 
could  get  into  touch  with  it,  agreed  that  Gaythorne 
was  "a  good  fellow — wealthy,  and,  though  an  Amer- 
ican, good  form." 

When  Waring  joined  his  train  at  the  Great  Central 
Station  he  noted,  with  a  quiet  grin,  the  ostentatiously 
well-dressed  man,  Italian  in  color  and  Jewish  in  form, 
the  man  who  had  followed  him  the  day  he  called  on 
Vesta  Copeland's  solicitor. 

Betraying  no  consciousness  of  the  presence  of  this 
suggestive  figure,  Waring  boarded  his  train,  intending 
to  spend  the  evening  quietly  at  Missingham.  As  he 
traveled  he  made  up  his  mind  on  one  obvious  factor  in 
the  situation.  He  had  received  the  direct  challenge  and 
he  must  face  it.  If  he  were  to  dog  the  Red  Colonel  to 
the  point  where  Waring  could  present  proofs  of  his 
guilt,  his  work  lay  entirely  in  London.  As  he  thought 
over  the  necessity  of  making  his  residence  in  London, 
the  advice  of  Delane  suddenly  assumed  a  new  signifi- 
cance. The  man,  in  suggesting  Waring  should  die, 
had  given  a  hint  worth  following.  Waring  decided  not 
only  to  move  his  quarters  to  London,  but,  in  doing  so, 

231 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


to  obliterate  his  own  identity.  He  would  take  up  the 
challenge,  but  not  as  Stanley  Waring.  He  would  dis- 
appear, leaving  no  trace  of  his  identity  behind  him. 
As  Waring  left  the  station  he  saw,  near  the  rear  of 
the  train,  the  man  who  had  obviously  followed  him 
through  London  to  the  Marylebone  station. 

The  decision  he  had  reached  was  communicated  by 
Waring  to  Vesta  Copeland  in  the  evening,  and,  though 
she  betrayed  much  concern,  she  saw  the  wisdom  of  his 
course  of  action.  That  was  the  last  evening  Waring 
spent  at  his  home  for  some  weeks,  and  long  after  the 
family  retired  he  remained  up,  weighing  the  exact  posi- 
tion as  he  saw  it. 

First,  his  duty  was  to  identify  Gaythorne  with  the 
Red  Colonel  by  actual  evidence.  The  only  direct  evi- 
dence he  had  was  Vesta  Copeland's  recognition  of  Gay- 
thorne's  voice  as  being  similar  to  the  voice  of  a  man 
of  much  different  appearance  who  had  been  in  the  lane 
outside  Wayside  Lodge  on  the  night  of  the  first  mur- 
der. That  was  slender  enough.  There  was  his  own 
knowledge  of  the  murder  of  Cunning  to  put  against 
the  fact  that  Gaythorne  had  cleverly  contrived  an  alibi 
by  his  published  appearance  at  the  fancy  dress  ball. 
Waring  did  not  doubt  the  same  foresight  had  led  Gay- 
thorne to  take  similar  precautions  with  the  view  of 
covering  his  movements  on  the  night  of  Paul  Copeland's 
murder.  Beyond  these  two  facts,  Waring  had  no  other 
evidence.  The  rest  was  surmise,  unless  he  counted  the 
matter  of  the  wounded  arm  as  being  valuable.  Meet- 
ing this  slender  clew  was  the  false  suggestion  of  the 
banknote,  with  the  imprint  of  a  three-fingered  hand 
upon  it — clearly  pointing  to  Cunning  as  the  murderer. 

232 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


Against  all  Waring  knew  was  the  fact  that  Gaythorne 
was  a  man  of  position,  courted,  admired,  socially  pleas- 
ing and  important,  while  the  personality  of  the  Red 
Colonel  lay  buried  in  twenty-year-old  annals  of  crime. 

And  again  Waring  had  another  thought — the  safety 
of  his  parents,  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Waring,  and  Vesta  Cope- 
land,  living  in  a  house  supposed  by  the  two  surviving 
members  of  the  Red  Four  to  contain  the  solution  of 
Paul  Copeland's  secret  for  which  they  had  risked  much. 
Thinking  the  matter  over,  he  did  not  doubt  that  some- 
one was  capable  of  breaking  into  the  schoolhouse  on 
behalf  of  the  two  desperate  men  who  had  acted  so 
quickly  and  ruthlessly  since  their  discovery  of  the  first 
victim.  As  he  thought,  Waring  remembered  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  man  he  had  seen  at  Marylebone  on  the 
platform  of  Missingham  station.  Suddenly  he  realized 
that  now  perhaps  one  of  the  Red  Four  was  in  Mis- 
singham, and  the  attempt  to  search  the  school-house 
might  be  planned  for  that  night. 

Waring  was  guessing  shrewdly,  but  he  did  not  guess 
quite  what  was  to  happen  that  night — a  happening  so 
grotesque  and  yet  so  bold  in  its  cynical  menace  that 
Waring,  when  he  came  to  consider  the  incident,  won- 
dered whether  he  had  ceased  to  live  in  an  ordinary 
world.  It  seemed,  looking  back  on  this  incident,  as  if 
he  had  been  transplanted  into  the  strange,  rapidly 
moving  life  of  the  Arabian  Nights. 

The  hour  was  about  eleven.  The  school-house  was 
quite  silent.  Waring  was  the  only  one  of  the  house- 
hold who  had  not  retired. 

He  had  piled  the  logs  onto  the  dining-room  fire. 
Deep  in  an  easy  chair,  blowing  clouds  of  twisting,  curv- 

233 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


ing  smoke  from  a  favorite  briar  toward  the  ceiling, 
Waring  pondered  over  the  tangled  skein  of  crime  left 
in  his  hands  by  Paul  Copeland. 

Smoking  in  the  quiet  hours  of  the  night,  there  comes 
often  to  men  capable  of  great  concentration  an  hour 
when  the  brain  works  with  unusual  lucidity.  The  con- 
dition might  be  called,  for  want  of  a  better  phrase,  an 
access  of  vision. 

In  such  an  hour  Waring  was  reducing  many  of  the 
tangled  skeins  to  order  and  to  some  sort  of  logical  pro- 
gression. 

He  held  the  clew  the  Red  Colonel  wanted,  and  he 
realized  Gaythorne  was  in  possession  of  the  house 
which  alone  could  reveal  the  meaning  of  the  design 
and  the  cryptic  line  beneath  it.  He  guessed  Gay- 
thorne had  tracked  Copeland  to  London,  and  the  lat- 
ter had  been  warned  in  sufficient  time  to  fly.  The  Red 
Colonel  had  found  the  nest,  but  the  bird  had  flown. 
He  had  at  once  taken  possession  of  the  house  in  the 
hope  that  Copeland  must  return.  And  here,  with  singu- 
lar lucidity,  Waring's  brain  had  a  vision  of  the  real 
irony  of  the  situation.  He  knew  where  Paul  Copeland's 
treasure  was,  but  could  not  reach  it  through  Gay- 
thorne's  presence  in  the  house  in  Beddoes  Street.  The 
Red  Colonel  was  taking  risks,  adding  crime  to  crime, 
deepening  the  red  stain  upon  his  ruthless  record,  for 
the  key  to  a  fortune  probably  lying  hidden  in  the  very 
house  he  occupied. 

Waring  had  puzzled  this  out  from  what  he  had  seen 
and  from  much  he  had  merely  guessed.  He  rose,  kicked 
the  fire,  and  dashed  out  the  ashes  of  his  pipe  by  knock- 
ing the  bowl  against  the  mantelpiece.  As  he  filled  the 

234 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


pipe  again  there  was  a  grim  smile  on  his  lean  features. 

He  had  applied  a  match  to  the  tobacco  and  was 
drawing  in  the  flame,  when  his  enjoyment  of  the  new 
charge  was  suddenly  arrested. 

Outside  a  voice  was  singing,  not  loudly,  but  with  a 
carrying  power  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  volume. 

The  voice  was  a  male  one,  and  each  note  revealed 
unusual  quality,  training,  and  mastery.  Tenor — a 
soft,  round,  flexible  tenor,  each  note  so  smooth  one 
thought  of  pearls,  and  yet  so  liquid  as  to  set  the  mind 
seeing  spring  water  plashing  into  a  crystal  globe. 

Stanley  Waring's  senses  were  acute.  The  match  in 
his  hand  went  out.  He  laid  the  briar  back  on  the 
mantelpiece.  The  smile  faded  from  his  lips. 

"The  Warbler,"  he  said,  grimly,  speaking  the  words 
aloud. 

Even  as  he  realized  the  fact,  the  last  line  of  a  chorus 
was  reached,  and,  as  the  notes  of  it  died  away,  Waring, 
with  a  catch  of  his  breath,  realized  the  same  notes 
were  being  sung  outside  his  home  as  had  been  whistled 
in  the  form  of  a  signal  before  the  murder  of  Paul  Cope- 
land,  and  were  used  as  a  summons  by  the  Red  Colonel 
himself  the  night  Cunning  died  in  the  study  at  Way- 
side Lodge. 

There  was  no  sound  outside  after  the  singing  had 
finished. 

Waring  stood,  taut  and  eager,  like  a  greyhound  on 
the  leash,  with  the  game  coming  from  cover  to  the 
open  field. 

He  looked  round  the  room,  with  its  shuttered,  cur- 
tained windows,  as  if  he  expected  to  see  a  figure  spring- 
ing through  them.  Mentally  he  reviewed  the  apart- 

235 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


ments  in  the  school-house,  wondering  where  they  were 
vulnerable.  Then  he  realized  the  voice  outside  was  a 
summons — a  bold,  challenging  summons  to  himself,  dar- 
ing Waring  to  deny  his  knowledge  of  the  sinister  bar 
of  music  or  its  significance. 

Waring's  first  impulse  was  to  open  the  door  and 
voluntarily  to  meet  the  danger  in  the  night.  He 
moved  as  if  to  carry  out  his  desire,  and  then  suddenly 
stopped — his  eyes  fixed  on  the  dining  room  door.  A 
footstep  was  sounding  on  the  stairs.  Waring  stiffened 
to  meet  the  newcomer  and  drew  a  revolver  from  his 
hip  pocket.  His  face  was  slightly  pale,  but  his  eyes 
were  bright  with  eagerness,  and  when  he  gripped  the 
revolver  not  a  nerve  of  his  hand  shook.  Thus  Waring 
stood,  as  the  footsteps  sounded  on  the  stairs  and  the 
dining  room  door  slowly  opened. 

"Vesta,"  Waring  cried,  almost  disappointed. 

Vesta  Copeland  stood  before  him,  attired  hastily  in 
a  dressing  gown.  The  terror  in  the  girl's  eyes  was  the 
horror  one  sees  in  the  faces  of  those  newly  wakened 
from  slumbering  security  to  sudden  danger.  Her  long 
hair  was  loose,  flowing  about  her  shoulders  and  veiling 
the  round  neck  standing  out  from  the  folds  of  her 
dressing  gown.  Her  white  feet  had  been  thrust  hastily 
into  bedroom  slippers. 

"You  shall  not  go,"  she  said,  her  voice  vibrating. 
"I  heard — oh!  yes,  I  heard.  They  want  you — my 
sweetheart.  You  must  not  go." 

He  gripped  the  girl's  hand  and  steadied  Vesta  by 
placing  an  arm  about  her  shoulder. 

"Silence,"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "This  is  the 
moment  when  you  must  be  brave.  Without  question 

236 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


you  must  obey  my  judgment — now!  The  house  must 
sooner  or  later  open  to  one  of  the  Red  Four.  Better, 
for  reasons  clear  to  me,  that  the  interview  should  take 
place  to-night." 

"But,  Stanley,  think  of  me,  of  yourself,  of  your  life 
which  is  mine." 

"I  have  thought,"  he  replied,  quickly.  "This,  the 
bolder  way,  is  the  safe  one.  Go  out  of  the  room,  to 
your  own  or  the  next.  Leave  the  hall  clear." 

"You  are  going  to  admit  this  monster?"  she  asked, 
her  lip  trembling. 

"Yes ;  if  you  love  me,  go.  Believe  me,  I  know  what 
I  am  doing.  And  try  not  to  disturb  anyone.  I  prefer 
my  parents  should  not  know  of  this." 

She  turned  obediently  to  the  door,  looking  back 
hungrily  upon  her  lover,  all  the  protective  maternal 
interest  in  her  slumbering  womanhood  aroused. 

As  Vesta  disappeared,  outside  the  round,  beautiful 
voice  was  singing  again,  and,  oddly,  the  liquid  notes 
made  Waring's  mind  dance  with  thoughts  of  Italian 
balconies,  of  some  languorous  maiden  looking  down 
upon  a  dark,  upturned  passionate  face,  of  romance  in 
scented  gardens  and  love  turning  to  madness  stirred 
by  the  longing  of  a  voice  singing  in  the  moonlight. 

The  silvery  voice  went  on  softly  until  the  last  notes 
making  the  bar  of  music  used  twice  AS  a  prelude  to 
death  by  the  Red  Colonel  ended  the  haunting  serenade. 
And  when  outside  there  was  only  silence,  Stanley  War- 
ing went  with  firm  step  across  the  hall  and  threw  open 
the  door. 


CHAPTER    XXV 

OUTSIDE,    in    the    darkness,    Stanley    Waring 
could  just  see  the  shadowed  bulk  of  the  singer. 
When  the  light  of  the  hall  struck  a  path  which 
illuminated  the  paved  footway  to  the  gates,  the  wait- 
ing figure  came  toward  the  door.     As  the  man  drew 
closer  his  shape  was  revealed,  and  Waring  recognized 
him  as  the  spy  who  had  twice  followed  him  to  Maryle- 
bone  station. 

The  man  in  the  garden  advanced  into  the  area  of 
light  and,  as  he  did  so,  bowed  with  a  certain  show  of 
grace. 

"Mr.  Stanley  Waring,  I  presume,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  Waring  answered,  in  staccato  tones,  frigid 
with  lack  of  encouragement. 

"I  should  like  to  speak  with  you,"  said  the  solitary 
figure  of  the  night.  "Would  it  be  trespassing  too 
much  if  I  suggest  you  ask  me  inside?" 

"No,"  answered  Waring.  "The  hour  is  unusual — 
but  come  in.  I  will  hear  what  you  have  to  say." 

Stanley  Waring  stood  back,  and  the  singer  stepped 
into  the  hall. 

Waring  closed  the  door  and  the  two  men  confronted 
each  other.  Waring  had  his  hands  in  his  jacket  pock- 
ets and  his  right  rested  on  the  revolver  he  now  always 
carried,  and  the  barrel  of  it  covered  the  figure  of  the 
newcomer. 

238 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"After  you,"  the  visitor  said,  with  a  courteous 
salute. 

"No,"  answered  Stanley  Waring,  grimly.  "You 
go  first  to  the  door  on  the  left  where  you  see  the 
light." 

"You  are  cautious,  sir,"  said  the  man,  politely. 

"Yes,"  answered  Waring.  "The  circumstances  are 
unusual." 

The  other  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  without  fur- 
ther comment  walked  toward  the  lighted  room. 

When  Stanley  entered  in  the  man's  wake  he  had  time 
to  examine  his  unexpected  visitor.  The  man  was  tall 
and  heavily  built.  A  thick  coat  reached  to  his  feet  and 
the  lower  part  of  the  face  was  buried  in  a  rich  astra- 
chan  collar.  A  silk  hat  was  carried  in  the  right  hand, 
and  as  the  man  entered  the  room  he  laid  it  down  on 
the  table. 

As  Waring  confronted  the  visitor  he  realized  the 
familiar  features.  The  man's  face  was  heavy  in  the 
Italian  manner,  and  swarthy,  the  chin  being  of  an  un- 
healthy hue.  The  hair  was  short  and  clung  about  the 
forehead  in  crisp  oily  curls.  The  nose  was  distinctly 
Jewish  in  its  character,  hooked,  and  distinctly  pred- 
atory. A  heavy  black  moustache  partially  hid  a  mouth 
thick  of  lip  and  very  sensual.  The  whole  face,  includ- 
ing the  soft  brown  eyes,  was  smiling  ingratiatingly. 
The  smile  was  of  the  type  that  begins  at  the  teeth 
and  works  outwardly.  At  a  glance,  Waring  knew  the 
man's  superficial  smile  was  more  to  be  feared  than 
the  stormy  signs  of  anger  that  gather  on  many  faces. 
There  was  something  insincere  about  the  jovial  ex- 
pression. One  felt  the  man  could  smile  at  will  and 

239 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


mask  the  worst  purposes  under  a  leer  meant  to  dis- 
arm. 

'  v  v  en,  said  Waring,  eyeing  his  man.  "I  am  pre- 
pared to  hear  you — go  on." 

The  smile  grew  more  pronounced. 

"You  know  me?"  said  the  stranger. 

"No,"  answered  Waring. 

"But  you  know  why  I  have  come?" 

"No." 

The  dark,  expansive  smile  grew  more  pronounced. 

"And  yet,"  the  stranger  said,  thoughtfully,  "you 
opened  to  the  signal." 

Waring  smiled  grimly. 

"I  do  not  follow  you,"  he  said,  slowly.  "It  is  not 
usual  for  tenor  voices,  exquisite  tenor  voices,  to  sing 
in  my  garden  at  night.  I  opened  out  of  sheer  curi- 
osity." 

The  Italian-looking  man  bowed. 

"You  compliment  my  voice.  Ah !  yes,"  he  said.  "It 
is  gracious  of  you.  Years  ago  I  dreamed  of  singing 
in  the  opera — the  career.  Ah !  I  still  have  my  dreams ; 
but  for  me — never.  They  do  not  come  true.  And  this 
life  is  all  so  different — so  different  from  the  dream. 
I  think  about  it  and  think  again.  The  music — 
it  was  my  god — but  all  too  late.  Never — it  can 
never  be." 

As  he  spoke,  a  little  extravagantly,  shaking  his  head 
and  shrugging  his  shoulders,  Waring  watched  him 
closely,  and  observed  the  smiling  eyes  eagerly  looked 
over  the  apartment  with  swift,  cunning  and  quick,  ap- 
praising glance. 

Waring's  lip  curled  slightly  when  he  spoke  again. 

240 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"You  did  not  come  to  tell  me  of  the  dreams  that  do 
not  come  true,"  he  said,  with  a  frigid  air  of  calm. 

The  visitor  shrugged  his  shoulders  extravagantly 
and  his  hands  sank  deep  in  his  coat  pockets. 

"Clever  Englishman,"  he  said.  "Of  course,  I  speak 
not  only  of  my  dreams,  but  sometimes  I  remember.  It 
is  a  great  sadness.  The  voice  is  a  wonderful  organ. 
I  am  known  in  many  lands  as  the  Warbler." 

Waring's  face  did  not  change  nor  did  he  admit  by  a 
sign  that  the  name  was  familiar  to  him. 

"Take  a  seat,"  he  said,  curtly. 

The  other  bowed  and  slipped  into  an  easy  chair. 

Waring  sat  down  in  a  chair  opposite  to  him,  took  the 
revolver  out  of  his  pocket,  and  laid  it  quietly  on  a 
table  standing  between  them,  and  nearer  to  Stanley. 

"Cut  out  the  comic  opera  touch,"  he  said,  icily.  "I, 
want  to  know  why  you  have  come." 

The  smile  on  the  swarthy  face  still  broadened. 

"The  English — yes,  magnificent,  but  they  have  not 
the  imagination.  No — it  is  not  here,"  he  added,  tap- 
ping his  forehead. 

Waring  did  not  speak. 

"You  are  afraid,"  the  Italian  said,  comfortably. 
"You  are  afraid  of  the  Warbler — eh?" 

Waring  eyed  his  man  serenely. 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by  the  Warbler," 
he  said,  speaking  distinctly.  "But  if  you  think  I  fear 
any  comedian  who  cares  to  sing  in  my  garden,  you  are 
mistaken.  Cut  out  the  Italian  frills  and  let  us  get  to 
the  point." 

The  Warbler  rolled  his  eyes.  He  still  smiled,  but  the 
shrug  of  his  shoulders  expressed  irritation. 

241 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


"I  see — you  like  the  direct  touch,"  he  said,  amiably. 
"You  want  none  of  the — ah,  what  you  English  call  it — 
beating  about  the  bushes.  So!  This  is  my  message. 
I  come  from  the  Red  Colonel." 

"Yes,"  Stanley  said.     "I  guessed  that." 

"Why  do  you  guess  the  Red  Colonel — eh  ?"  asked  the 
stranger.  "You  have  the  clew — yes?" 

"No,"  Waring  answered.  "I  only  know  what  I  have 
been  told." 

"Who  told  you  ?"  Suddenly  the  Italian  face  stopped 
smiling. 

"The  Red  Colonel — this  afternoon,"  Waring  replied. 

Doubt  seemed  to  take  the  place  of  the  expansive 
smile.  The  Warbler  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

"I  will  not  have  that,"  he  said,  at  last.  "You  must 
know." 

Waring  drummed  on  the  table  with  his  fingers  and 
smiled  easily. 

"As  you  please,"  he  said,  with  marked  insolence. 
"You  believe  me  or  not  as  you  please.  But,  if  that 
is  all,  I  do  not  quite  see  why  I  should  sit  up  half  the 
night  with  you." 

Waring  was  offensive  deliberately.  He  knew  that  a 
barbed  tongue  would  find  an  angry  spot  beyond  the 
oily,  smiling  features  of  his  guest. 

"So!"  said  the  Warbler,  rising  hotly.  "I  will  tell 
you  and  tell  you  quickly.  I  will  teach  you  about  the 
civil  tongue.  I  will  make  you — 

Waring  picked  up  the  revolver  and  covered  the 
man. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said,  curtly.  "I  do  not  fear  you; 
I  stand  no  threats  from  you.  What  is  your  message? 

242 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Why  have  you  come  here?  I  admitted  you  because  I 
want  to  know." 

The  other  man  ran  his  tongue  round  his  full  lips, 
moistening  them. 

"So — you  shall  know,"  he  said.  "The  Red  Colonel 
— he  is  dangerous.  Already  a  man  die ;  one  man — two 
men." 

"Three,  to  be  precise,"  Waring  said,  easily. 

The  Warbler  started. 

"You  did  not  know  of  the  third !"  he  almost  shouted. 

"Yes." 

"Who  told  you?" 

"The  Red  Colonel  admitted  it." 

The  Warbler  bit  his  lips  until  the  blood  almost 
strained  through  the  taut  flesh. 

"No  matter,"  he  said,  with  a  wave  of  a  pulpy,  soft 
hand.  "Here  is  my  message.  One  man — he  die.  Paul 
Copeland — you  know  him.  He  had  a  secret — where? 
It  has  not  come  to  the  light." 

"No,"  answered  Waring,  easily. 

"No,"  agreed  the  Warbler,  sullenly.  "The  Red 
Colonel,  he  thinks  you  know.  He  says  this  foolish 
Englishman,  he  has  the  paper.  He  keeps  it  dark.  He 
looks  upon  you  as  a  dangerous  man — as  a  very  danger- 
ous man." 

"And  he  sends  you  to  scare  me,"  Waring  said,  with 
a  calculated  curl  of  the  lip. 

"He  sends  me  not  to  scare — but  to  bargain,"  the 
Warbler  said.  "He  offers  you  £1,000  for  your  secret. 
Give  it  to  me  now  and  I  pay  in  good  notes.  And  then 
you  will  be  free  of  us.  We  don't  want  you." 

The  other  strained  forward  eagerly  as  he  uttered  his 
243 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


message  and  waited  with  ill-concealed  anxiety  for  War- 
ing to  speak. 

"And  if  I  say  I  know  nothing?"  Waring  asked,  with 
a  smile. 

The  other  flicked  his  fingers  as  if  he  were  snuffing  a 
candle. 

"You  die,"  he  said,  and  he  smiled  opulently. 
"Sooner  or  later  you  die.  Already  one,  two — perhaps 
three,  as  you  say.  Maybe  and  easily — a  fourth.  You, 
sir.  A  thousand  pounds  is  a  lot  of  money  to  a  young 
man.  It  is  better — far  better — to  be  reasonable." 

Waring  rose  slowly. 

"Is  that  all?"  he  asked. 

"Yes — all  I  have  to  state,"  the  Italian  returned,  still 
smiling. 

"Then,  as  the  hour  is  late — permit  me  to  say  good 
night,"  Waring  answered,  pointing  to  the  door. 

The  Warbler  was  obviously  nonplussed. 

"The  secret  is  here?"  he  said,  ingratiatingly,  taking 
in  the  house  with  one  sweep  of  his  arm. 

"No,"  Waring  said,  positively.  "If  I  had  the  secret, 
I  would  not  burden  the  house  of  my  friends  with  it  and 
invite  the  attentions  of  such  men  as  you." 

As  he  spoke,  the  Warbler,  eyeing  Waring  intently, 
suddenly  looked  at  the  door.  His  face  was  contorted 
with  a  sudden  expression  of  fear  so  grotesque  that 
Waring  seemed  dumfounded.  Almost  mechanically, 
Waring  followed  the  horror-stricken  gaze  and  turned 
his  head.  A  second  later  he  realized  his  mistake.  The 
Warbler  had  sprung  upon  him,  caught  him  by  the 
throat,  and  had  thrown  him  bodily  across  the  heavy 
dining  room  table. 

244 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"Aha !"  he  chuckled  softly.  "My  face — it  is  my  for- 
tune. They  must  look  away  when  they  see  the  ex- 
pression. It  is  a  trick,  a  very  great  trick." 

And  even  as  he  spoke  the  soft,  almost  chubby 
hands  of  the  Warbler  were  upon  Waring's  throat, 
pressing  with  a  viselike  grip  belying  their  fleshy 
shape. 

"We  teach  you  to  defy — we  teach  you  to  balk  the 
Red  Colonel,"  the  man  said,  smiling  into  Waring's  dis- 
torted features  with  the  hate  of  a  wild  beast  reveling 
in  its  power  for  brutality.  As  he  spoke  he  was 
strangling  the  life  out  of  Waring,  and  the  latter  could 
only  move  convulsively  in  the  horrible  grasp  and  won- 
der, as  a  rat  caught  in  a  steel  trap,  whether  this  was 
the  end,  whether  he  might  bite  himself  free,  whether 
there  was  hope,  whether 

"If  you  do  not  take  your  hands  off  that  man,  I'll 
blow  your  brains  out !" 

The  words  were  spoken  in  the  Warbler's  ear  by  an 
even  feminine  voice,  and  the  man  felt  the  cold  barrel 
of  a  revolver  at  his  temple. 

He  looked  and  saw  Vesta  Copeland  standing  by  his 
side,  the  ugly  weapon  grasped  in  a  steady  white  hand. 
Immediately  he  released  his  grip  on  Waring  and  turned 
to  deal  with  her.  As  he  did  so,  Waring  leaped  to  his 
feet,  slightly  dizzy  and  breathless,  and  seized  his  own 
revolver. 

Between  them,  Vesta  and  Waring  had  the  Warbler 
covered. 

Instantly  he  became  the  smiling  caller  of  a  minute 
before. 

"You  have  the  — er — advantage,"  he  said,  easily. 
245 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"What  will  you  do?  Blow  out  the  brain — eh?  Or 
call  the  police?" 

"Neither,"  Waring  said.    "Go." 

The  Warbler  looked  from  the  girl  to  Waring5  s  stern- 
set  face. 

"Ah !  I  understand,"  he  said,  easily,  and  smiling  with 
dog-like  ferocity.  "I  know  what  I  came  to  find  out.  It 
is  certain — very  certain  and  sure.  You  have  the  secret 
— yes.  You  will  not  risk  the  police.  You  will  not  sell. 
So !  You  are  brave  but  foolish.  You  will  live  to  regret 
this — yes,  yes,  sooner  or  later,  you  will  regret  this 
very  much." 

The  Warbler  took  his  silk  hat  and,  smiling  into  the 
weapons  pointed  at  him,  walked  to  the  door. 

Waring  closed  the  entrance  behind  his  unusual 
visitor. 

As  he  looked  gratefully  into  the  troubled  eyes  and 
white  face  of  Vesta  Copeland,  a  voice  was  singing  softly 
outside.  Full,  silvery,  liquid,  pure,  the  voice  of  the 
Warbler,  leaving  the  garden,  rose  and  fell.  It  trilled 
the  notes  of  the  operatic  air,  and  before  the  man  had 
receded  out  of  hearing  he  had  finished  the  chorus.  The 
last  sounds  Waring  made  out  were  the  notes  of  the 
Red  Colonel's  whistled  signal,  given  with  the  caressing 
grace  of  a  finished  singer.  And,  even  though  they  were 
clothed  in  velvety  sound,  the  last  bar  of  the  melody 
was  a  deadly  threat. 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

AT  night  the  corner  of  the  Cafe  Egypt  is  always 
bravely  lighted.  It  is  situated  within  the  heart 
of  the  lighted  area  of  Leicester  Square.  In  a 
district  where  electricity  is  lavishly  used,  the  Cafe 
Egypt,  so  far  as  illumination  goes,  holds  its  own. 

The  Cafe  Egypt  is  one  of  the  many  establishments 
in  the  west  doing  no  business  by  day.  Until  well  into 
the  evening  the  premises  have  a  stale,  blase,  weary  air. 
From  the  outside,  in  the  daylight,  the  curious  may 
learn  how  garish  and  coarse  are  the  decorations  that 
show  up  so  bravely  under  the  glare  of  the  many  arc 
lamps. 

At  night  the  Cafe  Egypt  is  always  in  fine  fig  and 
feather,  and  it  becomes  more  positive  in  its  round  the 
nearer  the  hands  of  the  clock  point  to  midnight.  At 
its  door  stand  two  uniformed  attendants  who  have  the 
manners  of  ex-policemen.  The  fact  that  there  are 
always  two  is  in  itself  significant.  Through  the  doors 
pass  many  people,  but,  despite  their  number,  they  may 
be  separated  into  two  distinct  types.  One  is  common- 
place enough,  whether  the  man  be  young  or  old.  He 
is  well  dressed,  a  little  excited,  and  is  seeing  life — life, 
in  this  case,  meaning  a  beat  round  the  lighted  haunts 
in  and  about  Piccadilly  Circus  and  Leicester  Square, 
punctuated  by  pauses  for  alcoholic  inspiration. 

The  second  type  is  composed  of  people  of  both  sexes 
and  of  any  age.  They  have  the  unconscious  direct- 

247 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


ness  of  those  who  are  familiar  with  every  light  in  the 
street  or  stone  in  the  pavement  between  the  Circus  and 
Leicester  Square.  In  the  artificial  light  these  men  or 
women,  old  or  young,  look  brave  enough.  The  women 
run  to  fine  feathers,  bold,  challenging  glances  and 
patchouli  fumes,  with  a  certain  hard  defiance  in  their 
warmest  smiles.  The  men  are  well  groomed  and  of  any 
age,  usually  a  little  faded  and  hectic,  scrupulous  about 
their  linen  and  having  a  tendency  to  pose  so  that  a 
diamond  pin,  or  ring,  or  a  pair  of  jeweled  sleeve  links 
may  make  the  most  favorable  impression  while  deflect- 
ing the  crazy  light.  All  this  type  have  one  quality  in 
common — a  persistent,  furtive  but  analytical  watch- 
fulness. They  are  all  habitues  of  the  West  End  and 
seem  to  have  business  in  the  night — and  every  night. 
Their  business  takes  them  to  places  where  corks  pop 
in  steady  chorus,  accompanied  by  the  persistent  rattle 
of  glass ;  where  waiters  move  everlastingly  among  the 
crowds  about  the  little  tables  and  where  men  who  have 
dined  and  are  not  habitues  of  the  West  End  throw 
coins  carelessly  on  counter,  table  top,  or  the  ever- 
extended  trays  of  the  waiters,  as  if  money  were  as 
common  and  as  easily  acquired  as  grains  of  red 
sand. 

You  approach  the  Cafe  Egypt  by  a  marble  staircase 
richly  paneled  on  either  side.  A  nude  figure  in  terra 
cotta  holds  a  spray  of  electric  lights  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs.  You  walk  into  a  bar  almost  at  the  head  of  the 
staircase — the  Cafe  Egypt  is  nothing  if  not  hospitable. 
Three  over-painted  girls,  nervously  excited,  are  stead- 
ily filling  glasses.  The  proprietor,  a  stout,  over- 
dressed man,  stands  in  the  corner,  chewing  a  heavy 

248 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


cigar  and  watching  neither  bar  woman  nor  waiter 
misses  a  penny  of  the  income  available  to  his  house. 
The  room  is  a  place  of  fierce  lights  and  garish  decora- 
tions, with  alcoves  at  either  side.  Easy  chairs  are 
placed  round  little  tables;  the  floors  are  heavily  car- 
peted; divans  run  along  the  walls,  and  in  and  about 
the  crowds  more  nude  figures  in  terra  cotta  hold  up 
more  sprays  of  electric  light.  The  staircase  goes  up 
again  into  another  similar  room,  and  a  band,  midway 
between  the  two  floors,  plays  the  garish,  hideous  music 
men  do  make  in  such  houses  of  the  night. 

The  reek  of  spirits,  the  fumes  of  cigar  smoke,  the 
odor  of  patchouli;  crowds  about  the  little  tables  and 
nodding,  gossiping  heads ;  frowsy,  restless  waiters, 
coming  and  going;  the  laughter  of  an  excited,  over- 
dressed woman,  the  crash  of  a  breaking  glass,  the 
mirthless  music  of  a  tired  band — all  these  go  to  com- 
plete a  hurried  picture  of  the  interior  of  the  Cafe 
Egypt. 

At  nine  o'clock  one  night  a  visitor  might  have  seen 
an  habitue  arrive.  He  was  a  tall,  lean  man  with  a 
military  bearing.  He  was  dressed  in  the  approved 
manner  of  the  West  End  five  years  ago — well  brushed 
silk  hat,  neatly  fitted  frock  coat  slightly  worn,  gray 
trousers  carefully  pressed.  His  hair  was  white  and 
the  heavy  moustache  hiding  the  mouth  was  of  a  silky 
gray  quality.  The  man  made  his  way  to  the  far  side 
of  the  room  and  sat  in  the  corner  of  an  alcove  at  a 
table  where  a  boy  and  a  gaily  dressed  girl  were  ex- 
changing glances  across  their  wine  glasses. 

The  newcomer  pulled  out  an  evening  paper,  folded 
his  gloves,  carefully  laid  aside  a  shabby  cane  of  malacca 

249 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


with  a  silver  mounting,  and  lit  a  cigarette,  the  vapor 
from  which  he  drew  through  an  amber  tube 

A  stout,  yellow-faced  waiter  sidled  toward  him. 

"Ah,  Tom,"  said  the  long,  lean,  white-haired  man, 
looking  more  like  a  retired  soldier  than  ever;  "how 
goes  the  game?  Is  this  little  beauty  spot  whirling 
round  in  the  same  old  way?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  waiter  said,  with  a  grin. 

"The  usual,  Thomas.  What  a  comfort  it  is  to  have 
an  English  waiter  in  the  West  End." 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  waiter  glided  away. 

The  white-haired  old  soldier  smiled  on  the  girl  sit- 
ting with  the  younger  man  at  the  same  table. 

"Still  blooming  like  the  rose,  Stella,"  he  suggested 
with  a  tired  smile. 

The  girl  nodded  brightly. 

"I  don't  know  how  you  keep  it  up  on  the  cheap  cham- 
pagne they  Sell  here,"  the  newcomer  said  with  a  sigh. 

She  raised  her  glass  and  drank  to  him.  The  younger 
man,  a  stranger,  flushed  with  some  annoyance  at  the 
interruption  of  his  tete-a-tete. 

"Ah,  sonny !"  said  the  older  man,  noting  his  glance. 
"No  one  minds  me,  the  clubless  Major.  Go  on  with 
the  game,  dear  lady,  I'm  quite  out  of  it.  There  are 
other  thrills  besides  sweet  champagne  and  women's  eyes 
— at  my  age." 

"Why  do  you  come  here,  then?"  the  girl  asked,  her 
chin  upon  her  hands. 

"Ah!  Miss  Madcap — because  I  choose."  He  smiled 
inscrutably  through  the  cigarette  smoke.  "There  are 
lights  and  people — here!"  he  added.  "And  one  sees 
much  that  is  amusing." 

250 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


As  he  spoke,  the  English  waiter — the  only  one — 
brought  a  large  glass  full  of  a  green  fluid,  together 
with  a  bowl  of  sugar  and  a  water  bottle. 

After  receiving  his  fee,  the  waiter  sidled  off,  leaving 
his  customer  apparently  preoccupied  with  the  spirit  at 
his  elbow.  A  metal  perforated  container  placed  across 
the  glass  held  a  piece  of  sugar.  On  this,  drop  by  drop 
— a  slow  process — the  man  who  called  himself  Major 
was  dropping  water  from  the  glass  vessel,  which,  in 
addition  to  the  usual  mouth,  had  a  narrow  perfora- 
tion at  the  side  to  regulate  a  flow  of  water  into 
just  such  drops  as  the  man  was  using.  As  the 
water  trickled  through  the  sugar,  the  green  fluid 
in  the  glass  grew  cloudy  and  whitened,  a  process 
apparently  pleasing  to  the  man  who  was  preparing 
the  drink. 

So,  sipping  his  absinthe,  the  Major  lapsed  into  a 
sleepy,  contemplative  appreciation  of  the  scene  about 
him.  Sitting  there,  he  seemed  to  be  just  amused,  in  a 
sad-eyed,  tolerant  manner.  People  thought  of  him  as 
one  of  the  army  of  elderly  pensioned  people  who  live 
alone  in  cities  and  in  the  evening  of  life  have  no  interest 
further  than  an  hour  at  a  cafe,  a  solitary  drink  and  a 
cigarette,  with  perhaps  a  glance  at  an  evening  paper. 
He  remained  there,  smoking  and  drinking  slowly,  read- 
ing a  little,  indifferent  yet  mildly  interested.  Indeed, 
he  had  become  so  familiar  a  figure  in  this  haunt  of 
mixed  impulses  as  to  be  recognized  by  some  of  its  most 
doubtful  habitual  patrons. 

Toward  half-past  eleven,  when  the  stormy  squeal  of 
cab  whistles  indicated  the  dispersal  of  the  theater 
crowds  outside,  the  Cafe  Egypt  grew  more  crowded 

251 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


and    slightly    more    uproarious.      Indeed,    there    was 
scarcely  a  vacant  seat. 

Two  men  who  had  just  come  in  were  standing  at 
the  mouth  of  the  staircase,  surveying  the  crowded 
room. 

The  Major's  metal  spoon  tinkled  in  the  glass.  The 
girl  before  him  met  his  eye  with  an  inquiring  glance. 
From  her  actions  one  might  have  thought  she  had  re- 
ceived a  sign. 

She  moved  casually  on  to  the  divan  near  the  older 
man  and  laughingly  called  upon  her  young  companion 
to  take  a  vacant  seat  by  her  side. 

The  movement  left  two  seats  at  a  table  vacant,  the 
only  two  in  the  room.  Toward  them  came  the  two 
new  arrivals.  One  was  a  heavy  man  of  Italian  features, 
in  evening  clothes,  the  fur-lined  coat  being  thrown 
open.  He  was  wearing  a  single  eyeglass  attached  to 
his  neck  by  a  ribbon,  the  black  line  of  the  fabric  show- 
ing oddly  on  the  coarse  texture  of  his  swarthy  face. 
His  friend  was  even  a  taller  man,  more  bulky  and  very 
strongly  built.  He  appeared  to  be  a  rougher  breed 
in  his  manner  and  dress,  which  in  some  measure  sug- 
gested the  sea.  All  the  same,  he  led  the  way  to  the 
vacant  chairs  and  took  the  initiative  in  commanding 
the  attention  of  the  waiter. 

The  elderly  military  man  sat  back,  sipping  his  sec- 
ond absinthe  absently,  smiling  upon  the  girl  next  to 
him,  and  anon  idly  watching  the  curling  smoke  drift- 
ing from  the  end  of  his  cigarette.  He  had  scarcely 
looked  at  the  two  men  as  they  advanced,  and  beyond 
politely  moving  his  legs  to  make  way  for  them,  be- 
trayed no  interest  in  their  presence. 

252 


THE   RED   COLONEL, 


The  two  men  talked  without  any  concealment,  ap- 
parently secure  in  their  belief  that  no  one  could  make 
sense  of  the  cryptic  quality  of  their  remarks. 

"And  the  country  blood?"  the  rougher  man  of  sea- 
faring manner  asked. 

"I  have  been  down  three  times  in  the  week.  He  is 
not  there — has  not  been  there  since  he  refused  to  sell. 
I  have  lost  him.  What  about  yourself?"  The  speaker 
was  the  man  who  had  introduced  himself  to  Waring  as 
the  Warbler. 

"I  think  I  have  found  him,"  the  heavier  man  an- 
swered. 

The  other  raised  his  tumbler  and  drank  to  his  com- 
panion. 

"What's  his  game,  Rufus?"  the  Italian  asked. 

"Watching,"  the  second  voice  replied.  "Waiting 
and  watching." 

"Where  does  he  wait?"  asked  the  Warbler. 

"In  Beddoes  Street,  every  day.  He  has  missed  the 
connection  so  far." 

The  two  men  laughed.  Suddenly  the  Warbler  leaned 
forward  across  the  table,  his  manner  curious  and  sig- 
nificant. 

"Will  he  be  permitted  to  wait  long?" 

"No — I  think  a  day  or  two  will  see  him  out  of  the 
picture." 

"And  the  grand  rally.    Have  you  fixed  the  date?" 

"Yes — it  depends  on  you.  Is  all  ready?"  the  man 
called  Rufus  asked. 

"Quite — every  man  will  be  in  his  place  and  some  of 
the  women.  We  only  want  the  word."  The  Warbler 
spoke  eagerly,  his  gaze  fixed  on  his  companion. 

253 


THE    RED    COLONEL 


"Then  make  it  Saturday — Saturday  at  eight 
o'clock." 

The  Warbler  nodded. 

"A  good  day — Saturday.  Always  plenty  of  money 
about." 

They  went  on  talking  earnestly  and  eagerly  together, 
as  men  who  have  many  details  to  discuss.  So  wrapt  up 
in  what  they  had  to  say  were  the  two  men,  their  heads 
drew  closer  as  they  leaned  over  the  table  and  their 
voices  sank  to  whispers.  The  elderly  Major  sipped  his 
absinthe  to  the  last  drop,  smoked  his  cigarette  to  the 
end  and  then  dropped  it  'into  an  ash  tray.  He  rose 
to  go,  buttoning  his  prim  frock  coat. 

"You  are  off  early  to-night,"  the  girl  at  his  elbow 
said,  smiling  brightly,  as  he  stood  up. 

"Yes,  my  little  nightbird,"  he  answered,  smiling. 
"Early  to  bed  and  early  to  rise — you  know  the  old 
proverb." 

She  nodded  brightly. 

"But  if  you  are  stopping  up,"  he  added,  "you  might 
let  me  know  if  anything  is  going  on — among  the  boys. 
Savvy,  little  woman?" 

She  nodded  again,  intelligence  in  her  bright,  chal- 
lenging eyes.  The  Major  saluted  her  by  primly  rais- 
ing his  hat  and,  leaning  heavily  on  his  malacca  cane, 
walked  with  a  tired,  lazy  carriage  toward  the  door. 

"Who's  that  old  buck?"  asked  the  Warbler.  "I  see 
him  often  here.  Crook,  d'ye  think?  Would  he  come 
in?" 

The  man  of  seafaring  habit  smiled  grimly  and  looked 
at  the  girl  opposite  to  him,  who  was  looking  through 
her  glass  of  wine  at  the  boy  by  her  side. 

254 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


"Can't  make  him  out,"  he  said.  "Might  be  white  or 
black.  Sometimes  I  think  he's  got  a  tag.  Sometimes  I 
think  he's  just  a  plain  old  fool  with  an  eye  for  pretty 
women.  No  harm  in  sounding  him.  I  should  not  be 
surprised  if  he  would  work  a  job." 

The  other  nodded  grimly. 

"Just  the  type  for  our  new  gag,"  the  Warbler  said. 
"He  looks  the  part  if  he  would  come  in." 

Opposite,  the  pretty  girl  was  staring  her  companion 
out  of  countenance  with  a  melting  glance. 

Outside,  on  the  curb,  the  old  military  man  was  stand- 
ing watching  taxicabs  go  by  and  scarcely  seeing  them. 

"Beddoes  Street,"  he  was  saying.  "Now,  that's  a 
new  thoroughfare  to  me." 

He  stopped  a  cab,  and  gave  the  name  of  the  street. 

"Stop  at  the  corner,"  he  suggested. 

A  few  minutes  later  a  cab  stopped  at  the  corner  of 
Beddoes  Street  and  the  fare  got  out,  tired,  languid. 

"One  and  two,  you  register,"  he  said. 

The  cabby  nodded. 

When  the  fare  had  disappeared  the  driver  was  look- 
ing intently  at  the  shilling  and  sixpence  in  the  palm 
of  his  hand  and  then  from  the  coins  to  the  vanishing 
figure. 

He  took  off  his  peaked  cap  and  scratched  his  head 
thoughtfully  after  a  minute  of  deep  reflection. 

"Blimey — it's  a  rum  hole,  is  this  London,"  he  said. 
"Now  I'd  have  sworn  a  Happy  David  that  ole  nut  had 
a  white  moustache  when  he  got  in  and  was  twenty  years 
older  than  he  seemed  when  he  got  out." 

He  replaced  the  cap  and  then  scratched  his  nose 
with  increasing  perplexity. 

255 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"Yes — it's  a  funny  ole  plice.  But  if  I'm  not  balmy 
that  chap  when  he  got  in  had  military  fice  fittings, 
bleached  sime  as  all  the  ole  soldier  toffs  seem  to  git 
their  whiskers,  working  foreign." 

The  taxicab  man  pulled  on  a  lever  and  his  vehicle 
thrust  forward. 

Up  the  street,  walking  slowly,  lazily,  was  the  old 
military  figure  who  had  left  the  Cafe  Egypt.  The 
cabman  was  right.  He  was  certainly  much  younger, 
and  the  white  moustache,  his  most  distinguishing  char- 
acteristic, was  missing.  He  had  altered  his  appearance 
so  that  he  did  not  seem  to  be  the  same  man. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

FROM  the  night  of  the  visit  of  the  Warbler, 
Stanley  Waring  disappeared  and  his  days  and 
nights  became  crowded  with  strange  new  inter- 
ests. After  his  interview  with  the  Warbler,  Stanley 
stayed  on  in  Missingham  until  the  noon  of  the  next 
day.  At  twelve-five  he  was  on  the  platform,  waiting 
for  the  train,  a  portmanteau  carried  in  his  left  hand. 
Upon  his  right  arm  hung  Vesta  Copeland,  looking  very 
beautiful  in  the  wintry  sunlight,  though  her  face  was 
anxious  as  the  girl  alternately  listened  and  talked  to 
Stanley. 

The  train  was  not  due  for  five  minutes  and  the  two 
young  people  paced  tne  deserted  platform  alone. 

Waring  was  now  speaking  slowly  and  urgently. 

"Above  all,  keep  your  nerve,"  he  was  saying.  "All 
the  chances  are  with  me.  I'll  send  you  my  name  and 
address  as  soon  as  I  fix  a  center,  and  you  can  always 
wire  me.  Yes — and  each  morning  I'll  ring  you  up  by 
telephone.  That  will  make  things  easier.  You  will 
know  exactly  how  I  am  getting  on." 

"Yes,"  Vesta  replied,  her  lips  trembling;  "whether 
you  are  alive  or  dead.  Easy  for  you  to  ask  me  to  be 
brave  and  to  keep  my  nerve.  I  can  do  both.  But  I 
should  not  be  a  woman  if  I  did  not  see  myself  sitting 
here  in  quiet  Missingham  and  waiting  for  I  know  not 
what.  You  will  be  in  danger  all  the  time.  I  feel  as  if 
this  might  be  our  last  meeting." 

257 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


She  broke  off. 

The  signal  bar  at  the  end  of  the  platform  fell.  The 
smoke  of  the  up  train  appeared  in  the  distance.  A 
solitary  porter,  disturbed  over  his  midday  meal,  strode 
onto  the  platform,  masticating  his  food  as  he  walked. 

"Don't  worry,"  Waring  answered,  trying  to  make 
light  of  her  fears.  "And  think  as  little  as  you  can 
about  it.  After  all,  the  chances  are  with  me." 

The  train  steamed  into  the  station  and  the  rest  of 
their  farewells  were  hurried.  A  few  moments  after 
Vesta  Copeland  was  sadly  watching  the  buffers  of  the 
receding  guard's  van,  and  Stanley  Waring  was  speed- 
ing to  London  and  the  shadows  of  a  great  series  of 
crimes,  with  the  key  to  an  appalling  mystery  to  his 
hand. 

The  up  train  ceased  to  stop  after  calling  at  the  next 
two  village  stations,  and  Waring  had  a  full  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  in  the  empty  compartment  he  had 
chosen.  He  used  it  to  some  purpose,  for  when  the 
train  drew  into  Marylebone,  few  traces  of  a  familiar 
figure  were  to  be  found  about  the  Waring  who  stepped 
out  of  the  carriage.  He  had  effected  a  simple  disguise. 
By  calling  upon  the  discarded  wardrobe  of  Dr.  War- 
ing, he  had  discovered  some  shabby,  clerical  attire.  A 
clerical  hat  pulled  well  down  over  his  eyes,  spectacles, 
a  heavy  plaid  muffler,  a  slight  alteration  of  his  carriage 
so  that  he  seemed  to  stoop  at  the  shoulders,  all  helped 
to  produce  the  effect  Waring  desired.  He  might  have 
passed  as  a  poor  curate  of  scholarly  habit  as  he  went 
peering  through  the  station  to  the  world  outside. 

So  great  was  the  respect  Waring  had  for  the  vigi- 
lance of  the  Red  Colonel  and  his  spies  that  he  spent 

258 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


most  of  the  afternoon  in  making  futile  journeys  into 
the  out  districts,  getting  in  and  out  of  trains  and 
watching  narrowly  for  the  appearance  of  any  man  who 
might  be  shadowing  him.  Hours  of  this  occupation 
proved  to  Waring  that  he  had  at  least  got  into  London 
without  observation,  and  he  returned  to  the  city  and 
set  about  the  task  of  finding  obscure  lodgings.  These 
he  secured  in  two  rooms  in  Doughty  Street,  situate  in 
the  heart  of  Bloomsbury,  and  from  these  rooms,  which 
he  furnished  simply,  Waring  started  out  upon  his  in- 
vestigations. One  of  his  first  cares  was  to  raid  the 
second-hand  shops  for  suitable  clothing,  for  Waring 
realized  that  the  mark  of  the  country  parson  was  too 
obvious  as  a  disguise  if  he  were  to  appear  in  the  same 
localities  day  after  day  and  to  pursue  all  sorts  of  un- 
expected inquiries. 

The  days  sped  on,  and  Waring  settled  down  to  trace 
the  activities  of  the  Red  Colonel,  or  of  Henry  Gay- 
thorne,  by  simply  watching  his  movements.  But  he 
had  not  been  many  days  at  the  task  before  he  realized 
how  difficult  it  was  going  to  be  for  him  to  associate 
the  fashionable  Mr.  Gaythorne  with  any  of  the  under- 
currents of  London's  crime.  Gaythorne  went  about 
much  and  passed  from  and  to  his  house  at  irregular 
intervals  throughout  the  day.  But  only  once  did  he 
leave  on  foot,  and  on  that  occasion  Waring  followed 
all  his  movements.  They  included  a  visit  to  a  club  in 
Piccadilly  and  a  quiet  walk  through  St.  James  Park. 
The  jaunt  was  purely  the  idle  stroll  of  a  man  of  fash- 
ion whose  morning  was  empty  of  engagements.  War- 
ing's  difficulty  in  most  cases  was  to  follow  Gaythorne 
at  all,  for  usually  he  left  32  Beddoes  Street  by  motor, 

259 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


and  was  whirled  rapidly  away.  Waring  tried  going 
after  his  man  by  taxicab.  The  hunt  ended  in  the  game 
outrunning  the  hound  and  disappearing  altogether  in 
most  cases.  On  the  few  occasions  when  Waring  was 
able  to  keep  up,  the  movements  of  Gaythorne  were 
devoid  of  suspicion  or  ended  hurriedly  in  railway  sta- 
tions. So  far  as  Waring  could  see  after  observing 
the  house  in  Beddoes  Street,  Gaythorne  went  out  as 
Gaythorne  and  returned  openly  as  he  went  out.  His 
comings  and  goings  had  not  more  significance  than 
might  have  been  attached  to  the  movements  of  any 
wealthy  bachelor. 

At  32  Beddoes  Street,  after  persistent  observation, 
Waring  was  forced  to  admit  no  espionage  was  likely 
to  produce  any  proof  of  a  dual  identity.  Whatever 
Gaythorne  might  do  when  he  escaped  observation, 
Waring,  so  far  as  he  could  follow  the  man's  life,  found 
him  to  be  Gaythorne  all  the  time. 

Many  people  called  at  the  house.  Some  were  quite 
well  known  and  Waring  was  able  to  recognize  many  of 
them.  Most  appeared  to  be  men  and  women  moving 
in  much  the  same  circles  as  Gaythorne  affected.  The 
rest  were  obviously  tradesmen  and  their  representa- 
tives. The  few  tests  Waring  made  by  following  the 
callers  leaving  Gaythorne's  house  proved  useless.  He 
ran  only  into  a  routine  of  good  repute.  One  man  he 
followed  disappeared  into  the  House  of  Commons, 
saluted  as  he  passed  by  the  watchful  police.  Another 
found  sanctuary  in  the  Athenseum  Club.  A  well-dressed 
youth  and  a  lady  dawdled  through  picture  galleries  and 
shops  in  Bond  Street  and  finally  trailed  Waring  back 
to  a  house  of  the  highest  repute  in  Berkeley  Square. 

260 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


There  was  nothing  sinister  about  the  movements  of 
any  one  going  to  the  house,  32  Beddoes  Street,  and  it 
became  very  evident  Gaythorne,  whatever  his  life 
might  be,  kept  his  social  existence  in  the  West  End 
rigidly  apart  from  any  of  the  sinister  influences  with 
which  Waring  had  good  reason  for  believing  he  was 
associated. 

For  days  the  hunt  was  a  problem  to  Waring,  and 
he  had  begun  to  despair  of  ever  connecting  Gaythorne 
with  another  life  beyond  the  one  he  lived  as  a  social 
butterfly.  Waring,  in  a  variety  of  disguises,  was  re- 
duced to  trying  to  time  his  arrival  at  Gaythorne's  door 
in  the  hope  that  he  would  succeed  in  overhearing  some 
unusual  instruction  given  by  the  owner  to  the  man 
who  drove  the  car.  Three  times  he  succeeded  in  catch- 
ing the  spoken  direction,  but  never  once  was  the  hunt 
of  any  service.  A  fashionable  hotel,  a  hairdresser's 
and  a  theater  ticket  office  were  all  the  addresses  he 
gained  as  to  Gaythorne's  movements  on  those  particu- 
lar days.  It  became  clearer  to  Waring  that  in  losing 
the  Warbler  he  had  lost  the  one  connecting  link  be- 
tween Gaythorne  and  crime.  The  Warbler  was  not  in 
society,  at  least,  and  did  not  look  plausible  as  a  social 
figure.  Wherever  Gaythorne  met  the  Warbler  was  the 
point  Waring  must  discover  before  he  could  pursue 
further  investigations. 

Such  were  Waring's  reflections  as  he  stood  nearly 
opposite  32  Beddoes  Street  on  a  Monday  night,  after 
several  days  of  fruitless  watching.  He  had  decided  to 
end  his  investigations,  so  far  as  they  started  from 
Gaythorne's  house,  and  his  next  step  did  not  seem 
very  clear.  In  a  hazy  way  he  had  half  made  up  his 

261 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


mind  to  watch  Marylebone  Station,  in  the  hope  that 
the  Warbler  was  paying  attention  to  the  possibility  of 
discovering  Waring  going  to  or  coming  from  Missing- 
ham.  At  the  back  of  his  mind  was  a  desire  to  return  to 
Missingham,  admitting  failure  for  the  moment,  and 
wait  again  for  the  appearance  of  one  of  the  Red  Four 
to  guide  him  back  to  the  lost  trail. 

The  night  was  dark,  wet  and  cheerless.  Beddoes 
Street  was  deserted.  Only  an  occasional  cab  drifted 
slowly  down  the  thoroughfare.  The  lights  glistened  on 
the  wet  asphalt  pavements.  Waring,  shabbily  attired, 
and  looking  as  nearly  like  a  street  lounger,  homeless 
and  out  of  work,  as  a  careful  selection  of  clothes  could 
make  him,  was  standing  in  the  shadows  of  the  portico 
of  an  empty  house,  a  few  yards  further  up  the  road,  on 
the  opposite  side  to  the  house  he  was  watching.  A  long 
vigil  had  taxed  Waring's  patience  to  its  limits,  and  if 
he  had  considered  his  own  personal  inclinations  he 
would  have  left  an  hour  before.  Something  dogged  in 
the  man's  nature  kept  Waring  to  his  task,  and  he  clung 
to  his  corner  in  the  portico,  as  much  for  shelter  as  for 
the  convenience  of  his  observation.  A  near-by  public 
clock  marked  off  the  passing  quarters;  later  and 
further  away,  Stanley  could  hear  the  boom  of  Big  Ben. 
As  the  clocks  had  struck  off  the  half  hour  after  seven, 
Waring  had  moved  impatiently  and  then  had  settled 
again  in  the  shadow  of  the  great  doorway.  It  seemed 
more  than  an  hour  to  his  tired  imagination  before  the 
clocks  rang  out  another  quarter — the  one  before  eight 
o'clock. 

Again  he  had  moved  impatiently,  and  again  he  had 
settled  down  in  the  shadows.  His  attention  to  the 

262 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


business  in  hand  had  relaxed  for  the  moment  from 
sheer  fatigue.  Suddenly  he  heard  the  sound  of  an 
opening  door  and  a  stream  of  light  indicated  that  some 
one  was  leaving  Number  32.  Stanley  Waring's  senses 
drew  together  and  his  interest  tautened.  He  waited 
eagerly  to  see  whether  a  vehicle  was  to  be  summoned. 
With  a  feeling  of  relief  he  saw  the  big  figure  of  Gay- 
thorne  standing  in  the  doorway.  He  was  buttoning  a 
heavy  fur-lined  coat  across  a  white  expanse  of  shirt. 
The  man  stood  in  the  light  streaming  outward  from 
the  hall,  looking  carelessly  up  and  down  the  wet  gloom 
of  the  empty  street.  The  head  of  Delane,  the  butler, 
appeared  above  the  area  railings,  as  he  stood  on  the 
steps  of  the  open  door.  To  Waring's  joy,  Gaythorne 
walked  down  to  the  pavement  alone  and  slowly  passed 
up  the  street  to  Mayfair  Square,  where  a  sharp  turn  to 
the  right  brought  the  wayfarer  direct  into  Piccadilly. 

Somewhat  surprised  to  find  Gaythorne  afoot,  War- 
ing let  the  man  pass.  He  was  twenty  yards  in  front 
and  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road  before  Waring 
started  in  stealthy  pursuit.  As  he  left  the  shadow  of 
the  doorway  he  saw  the  servant  Delane  looking  after 
the  figure  of  his  master  now  fading  away  in  the  gloom 
and  Waring  almost  faltered,  as  he  wondered  whether 
his  own  abrupt  appearance  would  arouse  any  sus- 
picion. 

The  incidents  in  the  following  few  minutes  happened 
so  quickly  that  Waring  had  not  much  time  to 
wonder. 

Gaythorne  walked  slowly  and  once  or  twice  looked 
round.  Waring,  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  crept 
forward  stealthily  in  the  shadows  of  the  buildings. 

263 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Gaythorne  reached  the  street  corner  fully  forty  yards 
in  front  of  Waring  and  stood  for  a  second  looking 
round.  Then  Waring  noticed  he  raised  his  hand  under 
the  light  of  a  street  cab.  His  mind  concentrated  on 
the  man's  movements,  Stanley  believed  he  was  calling  a 
cab  and  hurried  forward. 

Within  a  few  seconds  a  heavy  motor  car  swung  into 
Beddoes  Street  at  a  speed  that  made  even  Waring 
dizzy.  He  could  see  the  big  lights  of  the  vehicle  as  it 
came  toward  him  furiously.  A  footstep,  almost  noise- 
less, was  sounding  behind  him.  Instinctively  he  turned 
round,  for  he  had  recognized  the  cat-like  tread  of  Gay- 
thorne's  servant,  Delane. 

Gaythorne  had  turned  the  corner  and  disappeared. 
There  was  no  doubt  of  one  fact — Delane  was  pursuing 
Waring.  He  had  slipped  on  a  coat,  but  was  running 
noiselessly  and  swiftly. 

Before  Stanley  Waring  could  realize  the  situation, 
Delane  had  sprung  upon  him  and  beyond  a  doubt,  with 
a  mighty  heave,  was  trying  to  throw  Waring  in  the 
way  of  the  car  now  tearing  down  the  street  close  up 
to  the  curb  at  a  terrific  pace. 

Waring  braced  himself  to  resist  the  rush,  but  Delane 
had  the  momentum. 

Waring  felt  himself  swinging  from  the  parapet  and 
falling  backward  into  the  roadway  directly  in  front 
of  the  rushing  vehicle,  when  a  strong  arm  grasped  his 
shoulder  and  swung  him  round  and  on  to  the  pave- 
ment. 

The  car  rushed  on,  swerving  as  near  to  the  curb  as 
possible,  in  a  manner  that  could  not  be  considered  ac- 
cidental. 

264. 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"Damn  you!"  Delane  shouted,  and  turned  to  the 
second  man,  who  had  interfered. 

He  did  so  in  time  to  receive  the  full  impact  of  a 
weapon  about  the  size  of  a  policeman's  truncheon,  which 
the  third  man  wielded  decisively.  The  club  fell  square 
on  Delane' s  forehead  with  a  sharp  thud,  and  the  serv- 
ant sank  to  the  ground,  inert  and  helpless,  his  legs 
crumpling  under  him. 

"Don't  stop  to  inquire — run  for  it.  Back,  across 
the  road,  first  turning  to  the  left.  I'll  be  with  you. 
But  move — and  sharp's  the  word." 

The  words  were  spoken  by  the  stranger  who  set  off 
running  as  he  finished  shouting  his  warning  to 
Waring. 

Surprised  as  he  was,  something  about  the  curt,  de- 
cisive command  set  Stanley  Waring  moving.  He  found 
the  other  man  running  swiftly  and  leading  him.  They 
flew  along  the  silent  street  together.  Stanley  noted  the 
recklessly  driven  car  was  turning,  five  hundred  yards 
away. 

"Down  here,"  the  stranger  gasped,  still  running 
strongly. 

Waring  found  himself  following  the  man  down  an 
ill-lit  opening  leading  to  a  mews.  The  stranger  seemed 
to  know  his  way,  for  he  broke  off  again  to  the  right, 
through  a  dark  alley,  and  at  the  end  Waring  saw  the 
lights  of  another  street. 

"Now  walk,"  said  the  stranger  tersely.  "We  are 
safe." 

When  they  turned  into  the  main  street  at  the  end  of 
the  dark  passage  a  taxi  was  coming  along.  The  man 
stopped  it. 

265 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"Get  in,"  he  said  quickly  to  Waring.  "Drive  on, 
cabby." 

"Whereto?" 

"Piccadilly  Circus." 

They  were  in  the  vehicle  together.  The  taxi-cab 
shot  forward.  It  ran  down  the  street,  a  thoroughfare 
running  parallel  with  Beddoes  Street  to  Mayfair 
Square.  As  it  sped  through  the  Square,  Waring  al- 
most dazed  by  the  rapidity  of  events,  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  heavy  form  standing  halfway  between  Beddoes 
Street  and  the  thoroughfare  they  had  just  left. 

"H'm !"  said  a  quiet  voice,  lazy  in  every  note,  though 
its  owner  was  still  breathing  heavily.  "The  Red 
Colonel  waits  to  hear  that  his  juggernaut  has  crumpled 
you  up  like  a  battered  eggshell." 

Waring  knew  the  voice  at  once. 

"If  I  were  you,  Dr.  Waring,"  the  stranger  continued 
coolly,  "I  should  be  careful  when  watching  Number  32. 
The  Red  Colonel  has  tumbled  to  your  presence." 

"Ganton,  the  newspaper  man,"  gasped  Waring. 

"Yep — queer  start,  wasn't  it?"  the  other  replied 
lazily,  settling  himself  on  the  cushions.  "Next  time 
you  get  as  near  being  dead  as  you  were  just  now  you'll 
be  lucky  if  you  remain  as  alive  as  you  are  this  minute." 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 

THE  cab  was  speeding  along  Piccadilly,  but  some 
minutes  elapsed  before  Waring  could  collect 
his  scattered  senses.  Very  quickly  he  saw  the 
significance  of  the  incidents  as  he  reviewed  them. 
While  he  had  been  watching  Gaythorne,  Gaythorne  had 
not  lost  sight  of  Waring,  or  had  rediscovered  him,  as 
Waring  had  to  admit  to  his  chagrin.  He  could  only 
see  the  incidents  in  one  light.  Gaythorne  had  become 
conscious  of  his  persistent  observation  and,  with  char- 
acteristic cunning,  had  developed  a  plan,  swift  in  its 
ruthless  effect,  to  run  Waring  down  in  the  public 
streets.  The  Red  Colonel,  to  use  Ganton's  words,  had 
"tumbled." 

Victor  Ganton  was  leaning  back  and  blowing  clouds 
of  cigarette  smoke  through  the  open  window.  Since 
Waring  had  first  seen  the  man  his  appearance  had 
changed.  He  was  now  clean  shaven.  Devoid  of  the 
moustache,  much  of  Ganton's  expression  was  altered 
by  the  appearance  of  a  firm  mouth  and  a  rugged  jaw 
which  gave  promise  of  more  persistency  than  the  quiet, 
lazy  manner  he  still  affected  would  indicate  to  the 
casual  observer. 

Ganton  was  chuckling  rapturously  to  himself  as  if 
he  found  the  situation  infinitely  amusing. 

"You  have  done  me  a  great  service,"  Waring  began 
at  last. 

"I  have,"  Ganton  drawled,  throwing  out  another 
267 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


cloud  of  cigarette  smoke.  "It  is  the  luckiest  hit  I  have 
made  these  last  two  weeks.  The  value  of  my  service  is 
just  exactly  equal  to  the  value  you  set  on  your  life." 

"I  should  like  to  say "  Waring  began. 

"Yes,  I  know.  Thanks  awfully  and  so  on,"  Ganton 
interrupted  lazily.  "Cut  it  all  out.  I'm  not  working 
for  gratitude.  What  I  want  is  the  Red  Colonel." 

"But,  still,  I  do  owe  you  my  life,"  Waring  insisted. 

"You  do,"  Ganton  replied.  "That's  just  where  we 
are.  If  you  remember,  I  said  I  should  prove  my  bona 
fides  the  night  I  called  to  see  you  at  Missingham.  Do 
you  consider  I  have  done  so." 

As  he  spoke  Ganton  smiled  his  tired,  world-weary 
smile,  and  blew  another  wreath  of  smoke  out  of  the  cab 
window. 

"I  do,"  Waring  answered  decisively. 

"Well — we  are  getting  on,"  Ganton  said,  and  his 
languid  manner  altered.  "Listen,  because  I've  not 
much  time.  This  is  how  I  figure  it !  You  know  the  Red 
Colonel.  I  have  only  just  spotted  him.  You  know 
what  Copeland  held  over  these  men — why  they  put  him 
out.  You  have  the  key,  and  I — well,  I  have  some  of  the 
clues.  If  you  believe  my  proofs  that  I  am  trustworthy 
let  us  pool  our  common  knowledge.  We'll  be  stronger 
together.  Where  do  you  stand?" 

"I  cannot  connect  Gaythorne  with  anything  even  re- 
motely suspicious  and  I've  lost  the  other  man — the 
Warbler." 

"Well — if  I  prove  my  identity  and  find  the  Warbler 
for  you,  will  you  tell  me  all  you  know  about  Gay- 
thorne?" 

"Yes." 

268 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


The  cab  was  slipping  into  Piccadilly  Circus.  It 
pulled  up  opposite  the  Pavilion  Theater.  Both  men 
got  out  and  discharged  the  vehicle. 

"Now — let  us  take  another,  on  the  odd  chance  the 
Red  Colonel's  select  circle  were  on  to  our  number." 

Ganton  stopped  a  vehicle  crawling  across  the 
Circus. 

"Daily  Intelligence,  Fleet  Street,"  Ganton  said 
briskly  to  the  listening  driver. 

Within  a  few  minutes  they  were  speeding  along  the 
Strand  and  into  Fleet  Street.  Down  one  of  the  narrow 
byways  the  cab  stopped  before  a  huge  office,  lit  out- 
side by  immense  arc  lamps.  On  either  side  of  the  big 
door  labeled  "editorial"  were  plates  announcing  the 
premises  as  the  headquarters  of  the  Daily  Intelligence. 
Ganton  strode  through  the  folding  doors  and  dashed 
into  the  lift.  On  the  second  floor  Waring  found  him- 
self following  his  new  friend  through  passages  reeking 
with  hot  air  and  the  odors  of  ink,  oil  and  paper  subtly 
intermixed.  Messengers  were  running  about  the  cor- 
ridors. Below  one  heard  the  rumble  of  heavy  machin- 
ery, the  movement  of  which  seemed  to  set  the  building 
trembling  from  floor  to  ceiling. 

With  assured  confidence  Ganton  stopped  before  a 
door,  knocked  softly  and  walked  into  the  room. 

Waring  followed  into  a  dignified  office,  surprisingly 
different  from  anything  he  expected  to  see  in  neWs- 
paperland.  The  room  was  heavily  carpeted.  The  fur- 
niture was  highly  polished.  Two  luxurious  easy-chairs 
were  drawn  up  before  a  big  fire.  Some  notably  good 
etchings  and  a  few  photographs  were  on  the  walls.  Not 
a  loose  paper  was  about  the  room. 

269 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


As  Ganton  and  Waring  entered  a  lean  Scotchman  in 
evening  clothes,  seated  in  one  of  the  padded  chairs 
reading  an  evening  paper,  looked  round. 

"Dr.  Waring — the  editor  of  The  Daily  Intelligence, 
Mr.  Robert  Macnaughten,"  Ganton  said  by  way  of  in- 
troduction. 

"What's  going?"  asked  Macnaughten  briefly. 

Waring  did  not  quite  see  the  purpose  of  the  impend- 
ing interview. 

"Question  of  identity,"  smiled  Ganton.  "Say — Mac- 
naughten, who  am  I?" 

"Victor  Ganton,"  the  editor  replied.  He  betrayed 
neither  interest  nor  surprise. 

"What  am  I?"  Ganton  asked. 

The  editor  smiled. 

"I  would  say  a  genius,  only  you  would  stab  me  for 
another  jump  on  the  salary  list,"  sighed  the  editor. 
"I'm  prepared  to  admit  you  are  a  highly  valued  mem- 
ber of  my  staff." 

"How  long  have  you  known  me?" 

Macnaughten  smiled  again. 

"Fifteen  years,"  he  answered.  "Like  fifteen  years 
of  matrimony,  it  seems  longer." 

"What  color  am  I?" 

"White,"  the  editor  answered  instantly  and,  though 
his  manner  had  not  changed,  he  seemed  to  have  gath- 
ered the  reason  for  the  strange  conversation. 

Macnaughten  turned  to  Waring. 

"If  this  is  for  Dr.  Waring's  satisfaction,  I  may  add 
Ganton  is  white  all  through.  The  Daily  Intelligence 
has  to  be  very  particular  about  the  character  of  its 
representatives.  I  could  say  much  more,  but  Ganton 

270 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


is  a  susceptible  man,  and  if  I  praise  him  to  his  face  he 
is  sure  to  ask  for  more  money." 

Waiting's  expression  showed  he  was  content  with  the 
proof  so  casually  offered  to  him. 

"Thanks,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  think  Ganton  is  right. 
We  have  met  under  peculiar  conditions  and  proof  of 
identity  is  necessary.  I  am  satisfied." 

Ganton  turned  toward  the  door,  motioning  Waring 
to  follow  him. 

"Sorry  to  trouble  you,  chief,"  he  said  easily  as  he 
turned  to  go.  "Thanks  for  the  brief.  Good  story  in 
the  offing.  So  long." 

They  were  in  the  passage  together  outside  the  edi- 
tor's room. 

"I  need  hardly  say  I  shall  value  your  cooperation," 
Waring  said  to  Ganton. 

"Good — I  think  we  shall  pull  together,"  Ganton  re- 
plied, his  manner  vastly  elated.  "Time  is  short,"  he 
added. 

"I'll  tell  you  all  I  know  at  once,"  Waring  volun- 
teered. 

"No,"  replied  Ganton.  "I  have  a  pressing  engage- 
ment. I  want  you  to  leave  me  for  a  few  hours.  Keep 
quiet  and  out  of  the  way.  As  the  Red  Four  are  on  to 
you  don't  go  to  your  rooms.  Whatever  you  do,  avoid 
getting  killed.  I  should  go  to  a  music  hall  and  into  the 
pit,  if  I  were  you,  and  meet  me  here  at  the  offices  about 
twelve." 

Waring  quickly  assented  and  the  two  men  parted  at 
the  big  door  under  the  arc  lamps. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  Cafe  Egypt  was  busy  and  its  busi- 
ness of  remaking  a  characteristic  atmosphere — a  blend 

271 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


of  cigar  and  cigarette  smoke,  patchouli,  and  alcoholic 
fumes — was  in  full  blast.  Almost  as  the  big  chiming 
clock,  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  features  of  the 
cafe,  struck  the  hour  among  several  newcomers  troop- 
ing up  the  steps  was  the  quiet-mannered  Major,  who 
had  become  a  well-known  habitue  of  the  rooms. 

The  proprietor,  watching  every  servant  to  see  that 
none  of  the  loosely  handled  money  of  those  who 
thronged  the  cafe  missed  its  way  into  the  till,  nodded 
to  the  elderly  military  man  as  he  stood  blinking  in  the 
strong  light,  and  surveyed  the  rooms  in  a  quest  for  a 
quiet  corner. 

"You  are  late  to-night,"  the  proprietor  said. 

"And  yet  in  good  time,"  the  other  answered  gently. 
"The  night  is  young.  Tell  Tom  to  bring  me  absinthe. 
The  little  green  devil,  you  know — eh?  I  could  not  do 
my  graft  without  the  little  green  devil." 

"What  is  your  graft?"  the  proprietor  asked  curi- 
ously. 

A  big  man,  standing  at  the  bar,  set  down  a  tumbler 
and  looked  round. 

The  odd  figure  of  the  old  soldier  seemed  detached 
from  his  surroundings.  He  was  raising  his  hat  with 
an  old-world  politeness  to  a  smiling  girl  in  the  opposite 
corner  of  the  room.  His  mind  did  not  seem  to  be  on 
its  guard,  as  he  turned  to  the  proprietor  and  absently 
fingered  his  long,  white  mustache. 

"Ah!"  he  said  slowly.  "There  are  secrets  in  most 
lives  given  over  to  the  little  green  devil.  Its  victims 
have  not  to  be  particular.  As  a  man  of  the  world — 

The  soldierly  man  stopped  as  if  he  were  suddenly 
conscious  of  the  significance  of  what  he  was  saying. 

272 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


He  tapped  a  cigar  end  lying  on  the  floor  with  his  ma- 
lacca  cane. 

"No  matter.  Tell  Tom,  the  English  waiter — the 
usual  poison.  The  green  devil — eh?  Yes — that's  my 
graft — the  little  green  devil." 

He  went  his  way  through  the  crowded  room. 

The  proprietor  smirked. 

"Some  kind  of  a  crook,  I  think,"  he  said,  turning  to 
a  friend.  "I  can't  tumble  to  his  lay,  but  then — one 
can't  expect  a  pedigree  with  every  one  who  comes  here. 
He  always  behaves  himself,  anyway." 

The  heavy  man,  leaning  against  the  bar,  unloosed  his 
great  coat.  He  remained  absently  sipping  his  drink 
and  occasionally  looking  round  the  room.  He  noted 
that  the  man  whose  appearance  was  familiar  to  him,  the 
man  he  knew  as  Major,  had  found  a  seat  opposite  to  a 
smiling  girl  whose  color  was  heightened  by  rouge  and 
whose  eyes  were  unusually  bright — the  girl  he  ad- 
dressed as  Stella. 

The  watching  man  at  the  bar  saw  the  elderly  man 
served  with  absinthe.  He  noticed  his  usual  actions — a 
word  or  two  with  the  English  waiter,  Tom,  a  laughing 
sally  for  the  girl  who  sat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
table.  He  saw  the  old  man  select  his  two  lumps  of 
sugar,  and  sprinkle  them  slowly  with  spots  of  water, 
idly  watching  the  syrup  drip  into  the  glass  beneath 
the  spoon.  The  Major  looked  a  typical  victim  of  habit 
as  he  sat  observing  the  dripping  syrup  turn  the  spirit 
from  a  bright  green  to  a  cloudy  white.  With  great 
content  he  lifted  the  glass  to  his  lips  at  the  end  of  the 
tedious  preparation. 

The  man  at  the  counter,  Italian  in  manner,  but  with 
273 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


a  pronounced  Jewish  nose,  looking  somewhat  bloated  in 
his  evening  dress  and  coat  with  heavy  astrachan  collar, 
remained  watching  until  the  Major  had  settled  down. 

He  did  not  know  that  between  Stella  and  the  elderly 
lounger  there  existed  a  confidence  which  was  finding 
expression.  Amid  a  mass  of  the  very  persiflage  that 
made  them  usual  people  in  an  unusual  picture  and  fixed 
them  as  habitues  of  the  Cafe  Egypt,  the  girl  said  about 
three  serious  phrases. 

"They  were  talking  of  you  last  night,"  she  said, 
laughing  as  if  she  were  conducting  a  flirtation.  "They 
asked  me  pointblank  whether  you  were  white  or  black." 

"My  pretty  madcap,"  the  old  man  said  smilingly, 
and  he  patted  the  girl's  gloved  hand  as  it  lay  on  the 
table,  "what  did  you  say?" 

"Black,"  she  answered  gaily. 

"An  excellent  jest,  a  pretty  phrase,"  the  Major  said 
gently.  "It  reminds  me  of  the  nursery  rhyme.  You 
know  it :  'Baa,  baa,  black  sheep.'  " 

Her  glance  was  fixed  on  his  face  and  two  yards  away 
from  them  you  would  have  said  the  woman,  Stella,  was 
using  her  eyes  as  women  do  use  their  eyes  in  the  Cafe 
Egypt. 

"They  will  ask  you  to-night,"  she  said,  smiling  as  if 
she  were  talking  of  kisses.  "Go  warily,"  she  urged,  still 
smiling.  "They  are  more  than  dangerous." 

He  raised  his  glass  and  spoke  gaily  for  an  old  man. 

"To  your  eyes,"  he  said,  "they  are  beautiful  eyes. 
They  look  as  if  they  would  see  much.  I  will  mention 
your  eyes  to  Macnaughten — my  editor." 

At  that  moment,  the  man  at  the  bar,  the  man  we 
know  as  the  Warbler,  made  up  his  mind.  He  drank  off 

274 


His  eyes  wandered  over  the  girl's  face.     Bold,  dark,  cunning, 
their  glance  seemed  to  carry  a  message." 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


the  fluid  remaining  in  his  glass  and  then  carelessly 
threaded  his  way  through  the  table  and  chairs  to  the 
old  man  and  the  young  girl,  who  sat  together. 

He  seated  himself  as  a  stranger  might  at  the  same 
table,  called  a  waiter  and  ordered  coffee  and  cigarettes. 

For  a  few  moments  he  read  an  evening  paper.  Then 
he  looked  restlessly  about  the  room.  His  eyes  wandered 
over  the  girl's  face.  Bold,  dark,  cunning,  their  glance 
seemed  to  carry  a  message. 

The  girl  moved  quietly  away  and  joined  two  more 
friends  at  another  table — a  typical  clean  shaven  man 
about  town  and  a  wizened  old-young  man  with  spec- 
tacles, who  might  have  been  a  law  or  medical  student 
living  in  some  single  room  in  Bloomsbury. 

Almost  as  soon  as  she  had  gone  the  Warbler  fixed  his 
glance  upon  the  old  man  who  was  still  looking  sadly 
into  his  glass  of  absinthe,  oblivious  to  his  surround- 
ings. 

"You  come  here  often,"  he  said,  leaning  across  the 
table. 

The  old  man  started  at  being  suddenly  addressed. 
A  spoon  fell  from  the  table. 

"Yes — yes,"  he  said,  "often — very  often.  The  little 
green  devil,  you  know,"  he  explained,  "and,  besides,  the 
place  is  very  amusing." 

"You  come  only  for  amusement?"  the  Warbler 
asked  with  a  shrug. 

The  Major  raised  his  head  and  his  tired  old  eyes  met 
the  Warbler's  unscrupulous  glance. 

"Not  always  for  amusement,"  he  said  with  a  reserved 
smile.  "There  is  sometimes  business  for  me  in  this  hell- 
hole." 

275 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"Let   me   see,    you   are   Major "   the   Warbler 

paused  interrogatively. 

"Major — yes.  They  know  me  by  that  title,"  the 
old  man  said. 

"Major — what  is  your  English  name?"  asked  the 
Warbler. 

"Only  Major — here,"  the  military -looking  man  re- 
plied. "They  know  me  by  that  title  and  by  that 
only.  They  know  me  and  yet — they  do  not."  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  spoke.  "It  is  better 
so." 

"Suppose  I  give  you  a  lay — what?"  the  Warbler 
said  after  a  pause,  during  which  he  seemed  to  be  weigh- 
ing his  words. 

"White  or  black?"  the  Major  asked  curiously. 

"Black,"  the  Warbler  snapped,  and  his  big  jaws 
clicked. 

The  Major  balanced  the  spoon  upon  his  glass. 

"I  am  aging,"  he  said  pensively.  "I  am  not  so  ac- 
tive. I  have  not  seen  much  money  of  late.  If  there 
were  money  in  your  lay,  I  might " 

The  Warbler  took  out  a  card  and  scribbled  on  it 
rapidly. 

He  held  it  for  a  moment,  after  completing  the  scrib- 
ble as  if  yet  undecided,  his  glance  fixed  thoughtfully 
on  the  old,  aristocratic,  official  face. 

"You'll  do,"  he  said  at  last.  "You  have  what  we 
need — the  face.  And  there  will  be  money — much 
money.  You  will  come  with  that  to-morrow  at  the 
midday  hour — eh?" 

The  Major  slipped  the  pasteboard  in  his  pocket, 
after  eyeing  it  thoughtfully. 

276 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


He  stroked  his  moustaches  gently  and  smiled  mean- 
ingly- 

"If  you  will  order  me  a  little  one — a  little  of  the 
green  devil — I  will  come  to-morrow.  There  is  not  much 
money  in  London  for  old  men.  I  shall  hope  to  see 
more." 

The  Warbler  with  a  grin,  which  included  a  barely 
concealed  expression  of  contempt  for  the  other's  weak- 
ness, called  a  waiter  and  later  left  the  Major  smiling 
across  to  Stella  over  his  second  absinthe. 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

AT  midnight  Waring  was  pacing  the  pavement 
outside  The  Daily  Intelligence  office,  waiting 
for  his  new  friend,  Victor  Ganton. 

The  city  clocks  were  just  striking  the  hour  when  a 
man  turned  the  corner  from  out  of  Fleet  Street  and 
walked  slowly  along  in  the  direction  of  Waring.  Stan- 
ley watched  the  man  until  he  came  in  full  view,  under 
the  nearest  street  lamp,  and  then  turned  on  his  heel 
to  resume  his  walk  up  and  down  the  fifty  yards  of  pave- 
ment fronting  the  newspaper  office.  Obviously  this  old 
white-mustached  gentleman  in  the  silk  hat,  probably 
one  of  the  retainers  of  the  many  newspapers  about,  had 
no  interest  for  him. 

He  was  walking  on  slowly  and  the  man  he  had 
scrutinized  had  almost  caught  him  up.  Waring 
was  anticipating  the  stranger  would  shoot  by, 
and  leave  him  in  solitary  possession  of  the  thorough- 
fare. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Waring,"  a  voice  said  behind 
him,  the  voice  of  an  aging  man  with  which  he  was  not 
familiar. 

Waring  took  no  notice  of  the  words  beyond  stepping 
off  the  pavement  into  the  street. 

"I  said  good  evening,  Mr.  Waring,"  the  voice  went 
on,  insistently. 

Stanley  stopped  in  his  walk  and  turned  to  the  new- 
comer. 

278 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


"There  is  some  mistake,"  he  said  with  frigid  polite- 
ness. 

The  man  still  persisted  in  addressing  Waring. 

"You  are  waiting  for  Ganton — eh?"  he  said  confi- 
dently. 

Waring  looked  at  the  military  stranger  suspiciously 
and  at  once  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  there  was  a 
complication  of  the  new  situation. 

"I  am  waiting  for  a  friend  connected  with  The  In- 
telligence," he  said  icily.  "I  don't  know  the  man  you 
name." 

The  elderly  stranger  smiled. 

"It  is  a  tribute  to  my  disguise,"  he  replied.  "But 
you  do  well  to  be  discreet." 

The  Major,  habitue  of  the  Cafe  Egypt,  was  smiling 
youthfully.  With  a  brisk  motion,  his  hand  went  up  to 
his  face.  The  whole  of  the  heavy  white  moustache 
came  away  with  the  movement.  Waring  found  himself 
staring  with  some  astonishment  into  Ganton's  face. 

"I  think  I  have  earned  a  supper,"  he  said  easily. 
"Suppose  you  join  me  at  the  Newspaper  Club." 

An  hour  later,  in  the  somber  rooms  of  a  club  situate 
in  one  of  the  many  narrow  courts  off  Fleet  Street,  War- 
ing and  Ganton  were  discussing  the  situation  so  far  as 
they  both  knew  it.  Waring  had  told  Ganton  the  sub- 
stance of  Copeland's  statement,  withholding  the  details 
of  the  clews,  with  the  exception  of  the  print  of  a  hand 
marked  by  Copeland  with  the  name  of  the  Red  Colonel. 
He  had  also  explained  the  incidents  happening  imme- 
diately after  the  murder  of  Vesta  Copeland's  step- 
father, including  the  visit  paid  to  the  Black  Lion  by 
Gaythorne,  Waring's  knowledge  of  Mark  James,  the 

279 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


murdered  solicitor,  and  the  appearance  of  Gaythorne 
and  Cunning  at  Wayside  Lodge,  leading  to  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  latter  by  his  chief,  the  Red  Colonel. 

"I  have  no  doubt  from  the  talk  I  heard  between 
Cunning  and  Gaythorne,  the  murder  of  Copeland  was 
actually  carried  out  by  Gaythorne  himself.  The  ap- 
pearance of  the  hand  on  the  banknote  coincides  with 
the  print  left  by  Paul  Copeland,  except  in  one  par- 
ticular. In  the  clew  left  after  the  first  murder  the 
fourth  finger  of  the  hand  was  missing.  I  gathered  from 
what  Cunning  said  that  the  Red  Colonel  had  deliber- 
ately made  a  three-fingered  print  to  place  suspicion  on 
his  servant — who  only  had  three  fingers." 

Ganton  nodded  as  he  sipped  his  coffee. 

"Clear  enough,"  he  said.  "What  surprises  me  is  the 
police  attached  no  undue  importance  to  the  fact  that 
the  second  man  done  to  death  at  Missingham  had  only 
three  fingers.  That  confirmed  me  in  the  guess  I  made 
when  I  saw  Paul  Copeland's  body  and  led  me  to  try  to 
find  out  whether  you  knew  more  than  you  had  said. 
There  is  a  secret,  of  course,"  Ganton  said  slowly. 

"Yes,"  admitted  Stanley.  "There  is  a  big  hoard  of 
booty  gathered  in  the  past  and  hidden  away  by  Cope- 
land.  I  have  all  the  indications  that  show  where  it  is 
— and  will  show  them  to  you  at  the  proper  time." 

"Good,"  Ganton  said  slowly.  "Our  position  now  is 
obviously  to  find  some  means  of  identifying  Gaythorne 
as  the  companion  and  leader  of  my  friend  the  War- 
bler." 

"Your  friend,"  Waring  said  with  a  note  of  surprise. 

"Yes,"  said  the  newspaper  man  triumphantly.  "I 
got  my  line  on  him  to-night."  As  he  spoke,  he  drew 

280 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


from  his  waistcoat  pocket  a  card  such  as  might  be 
used  by  any  representative  of  a  legitimate  business. 

Stanley  Waring  turned  it  over  curiously.  He  read 
the  inscription  "Gabriel  and  Worth — General  Agents, 
15  Warden  Street,  W."  Across  the  card  was  scrawled 
in  pencil:  "Admit  bearer  to  see  partners,  midday." 

Waring  looked  from  the  card  to  Ganton. 

"I  do  not  quite  see  the  connection,"  he  said,  puzzled. 

"No — I  admit  it  is  difficult,"  Ganton  replied.  "Per- 
mit me  to  suggest  you  note  the  initial  letters  of  the 
two  names — Gabriel  and  Worth.  G — perchance  Gay- 
thorne;  W — probably  our  friend  the  Warbler.  A  co- 
incidence perhaps — but  significant,  is  it  not." 

"It  sounds  a  little  far-fetched,"  Waring  argued 
grudgingly. 

"But  not  when  you  hear  my  story,"  Ganton  ex- 
plained. "I  told  you  the  night  when  I  met  you  first 
at  Missingham  that  I  had  never  seen  Cunning,  Cope- 
land  or  the  Red  Colonel.  But  twenty  years  ago  I  did 
see  the  Warbler.  He  was  singing  in  a  New  York  opera 
company  and  was  crooked.  I  knew  that.  It  was  touch 
and  go  that  I  did  not  bring  home  to  him  a  share  in  a 
theater  panic.  I  had  a  straight  line  on  him,  but  he 
was  too  clever.  I  saw  him  twice  after  he  disappeared 
from  the  operatic  stage,  and  each  time  I  was  beating 
up  the  Red  Four.  I  had  proof  he  was  one  of  the  Red 
Four.  And  then  they  disappeared.  I  never  saw  him 
again  until  I  met  him  entering  the  Cafe  Egypt,  three 
months  ago.  Since  then  I  have  watched  the  man  al- 
most daily.  I  know  many  things  about  the  Warbler." 

Briefly,  Ganton  narrated  the  steps  he  had  taken — 
how  he  or  his  friends — members  of  a  staff  he  had  spe- 

281 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


cially  drawn  round  himself,  including  the  girl  Stella 
and  the  two  men  in  whose  company  he  had  left  her — 
had  watched,  waited  and  inquired,  and  had  drawn 
nearer  to  the  man,  by  posing  as  creatures  of  the  night 
life  of  the  West  End,  living  well,  without  visible  means 
of  subsistence. 

"And  to-night,"  added  Ganton  significantly;  "the 
man  who  gave  me  that  card  was  the  Warbler.  He  be- 
lieves I  am  an  old  crook.  To-morrow,"  he  added  with  a 
smile,  "he  is  going  to  ask  me  to  do  a  job  for  him.  I 
think  we  shaU  be  a  little  nearer  to  the  Red  Colonel 
after  to-morrow  morning." 

"What  were  you  doing  in  Beddoes  Street?"  asked 
Waring  curiously. 

"I  heard  the  name  of  the  street  used  at  the  Cafe 
Egypt,"  Ganton  replied.  "It  struck  me  to  inquire 
further  in  that  direction.  I  discovered  nothing  in  my 
three  visits  but  yourself.  I  saw  you  there  each  visit  I 
made  and  I  watched  you.  That  accounts  for  my  in- 
tervention." 

The  two  men  stared  at  each  other  thoughtfully. 

"It  comes  to  this,"  Waring  said  at  last.  "I  know 
Gaythorne  is  the  Red  Colonel,  but  I  have  no  useful 
proof.  You  know  the  Warbler,  but  you  cannot  asso- 
ciate him  with  Gaythorne.  If  we  act  against  the  War- 
bler we  lose  the  worst  of  the  gang — the  leader." 

"Yes ;  but  I  think  if  I  show  you  the  Warbler,  you 
will  find  one  of  the  men  who  meets  him  often  is  your 
friend  Gaythorne,  and  that  is  what  we  shall  establish 
to-morrow,  if  I  am  not  very  much  mistaken." 

They  remained  talking  until  early  in  the  morning 
and  finally  both  turned  in  at  the  club,  their  arrange- 

282 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


ment  being  to  journey  to  Warden  Street  before  noon, 
Ganton  to  keep  his  appointment  and  Waring  to  watch 
outside  the  premises. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  Waring  reached  Warden 
Street.  Number  15  proved  to  be  a  set  of  rooms  over  a 
stage  costumer's  place  of  business.  Waring  had  es- 
sayed a  new  disguise.  He  had  adopted  a  suit  of  soiled 
clothes  worn  to  shabbiness  that  was  almost  shiny.  A 
blue  neck  handkerchief  was  about  his  throat.  A  bat- 
tered cap  came  well  down  over  his  eyes.  Smoking  a 
cigarette  in  a  street  crowded  with  shabby  people, 
he  looked  exactly  what  he  pretended  to  be — the  type  of 
man  who  belongs  to  the  casual  laboring  class  and  might 
be  anything  from  a  petty  criminal  to  a  seeker  of  odd 
jobs  in  the  streets. 

By  a  stroke  of  good  luck  Waring  found  in  front  of 
the  premises  No.  15  Warden  Street,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  road,  a  frowsy  coffee  shop  and  cheap  eating 
house,  where  men  of  his  assumed  type  repaired  to  eat 
and  to  idle  over  draughts  and  dominoes.  He  entered 
about  the  hour  of  eleven  and  ordered  a  cheap  break- 
fast. The  shop  was  very  quiet  and  he  obtained  a 
seat  commanding  the  shop  window  and  overlooking  the 
entrance  to  the  premises  that  were  to  be  the  scene  of 
the  "Major's"  engagement. 

Nor  had  he  long  to  wait  for  interesting  incidents. 
Almost  immediately  after  eleven  a  big  man  appeared 
and  walked  without  hesitation  into  No.  15.  There 
was  no  doubt  about  him — he  was  the  Warbler,  dressed 
with  a  curiously  exaggerated  air  of  smartness,  exactly 
as  Waring  had  seen  him  the  first  morning  the  Italian 
had  met  the  train  from  Missingham  and  trailed  Waring 

283 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


through  the  town  to  the  solicitor's  office  in  Temple 
Court. 

Waring  ate  slowly  and  watched  closely,  but  nothing 
very  unusual  occurred  at  No.  15  for  many  more  min- 
utes after  the  passage  of  the  Warbler.  There  was  a 
number  of  callers,  made  up  mostly  of  young  men,  with 
that  furtive,  pallid  air  that  blinks  before  the  daylight 
and  suggests,  if  not  actual  vice,  life  burned  up  in  the 
night  life  of  a  city  and  spent  in  vitiating  atmosphere. 

The  hour  was  nearing  twelve,  and  Waring  was  still 
gazing  fixedly  at  the  premises  opposite. 

Very  slowly  there  came  down  the  street  a  man  clad 
in  the  rough  blue  pilot  cloth  worn  by  certain  types  of 
riverside  workers  when  on  holiday.  The  clothes  were 
loose,  shop-made,  coarse  and  ill-fitting.  A  cheap  bow- 
ler was  on  the  man's  head.  The  frame  of  the  wearer 
of  these  clothes  was  unusually  big ;  he  was  obviously  a 
man  of  enormous  strength.  The  face  was  slightly 
browned.  The  jaws  were  working  as  if  the  man  were 
chewing  tobacco.  A  moustache,  coarse  in  texture, 
drooped  with  the  damp,  careless  limpness  one  only  asso- 
ciates with  coarse,  self-indulgent  workers  who  idle  in 
cheap  bars.  And  yet  there  was  no  doubt  about  the 
man.  He  was  Gaythorne. 

Waring  gasped  as  he  saw  the  ponderous  figure.  The 
daring  of  the  transformation  compelled  his  admiration. 
There  was  no  pretence  of  disguise  beyond  that  neglec- 
ted mustache  and  the  slightly  bronzed  face.  Gay- 
thorne, superbly  tailored,  man  of  the  world,  trusted 
entirely  to  the  protection  of  a  change  in  his  clothes. 
The  intimates  who  knew  the  spruce  man  about  town 
would  simply  not  see  him  in  his  coarse,  ill-made,  loosely 

284 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


hanging  garments  as  he  walked  with  a  slouching  gait 
through  the  mean  streets  of  the  town. 

Gaythorne — the  Red  Colonel  at  last — his  carriage 
subtly  altered  to  fit  his  clothes,  lurched  rather  than 
walked  into  the  open  door  of  No.  15. 

Almost  on  his  heels  came  a  trim,  shabby,  elderly  fig- 
ure, military  in  its  neatness.  The  hat  seemed  to  have 
been  over-ironed.  The  prim  frock  coat  was  brushed 
threadbare.  The  worn  trousers,  neatly  pressed,  com- 
pleted the  atmosphere  of  shabby  gentility.  Tapping 
the  roadway  with  a  silver-mounted  malacca  cane,  the 
Major  walked  languidly  to  the  door  the  Red  Colonel 
had  used.  He  stood  for  a  moment,  stroking  his  white, 
carefully  waxed  moustache,  on  the  steps  of  the  premises, 
and  looked  absently  up  and  down  the  street.  Then 
he,  too,  walked  up  the  steps  leading  to  the  first  floor 
occupied  by  those  mysterious  general  agents,  Messrs. 
Gabriel  and  Worth. 


CHAPTER    XXX 

THE  Major,  or  Victor  Ganton,  of  The  Daily  In- 
telligence, walked  into  the  rooms  No.  15,  War- 
den Street,  Soho,  and  found  them  very  much 
as  other  premises  are  in  the  Soho  district — slightly 
mysterious. 

The  ground  floor  rooms  were  occupied  by  a  dark- 
skinned  dealer  in  the  meats  and  condiments  of  all  na- 
tions. The  cosmopolitan  population  of  Soho  looked, 
in  part,  to  him  for  the  foodstuffs  on  which  they  had 
been  reared.  His  stock  included  the  sausage,  sauce  and 
pickles  of  every  European  country,  labeled  as  their 
titles  are  spoken  throughout  the  capitals  of  the  world. 
He  dealt  also  in  the  common  dishes  of  oriental  peoples. 
One  could  get  the  basis  of  a  bird's-nest  soup  or  tinned 
shark's  fin  from  Mr.  Terrissi,  or  such  things  as  a  Neo- 
politan  ice,  a  packet  of  chewing  gum,  or  a  jar  of  olives. 
He  would  also  sell  you  the  foreign  papers,  journals 
relating  to  anarchy  and  distributed  secretly,  a  set  of 
tips  for  the  day's  racing,  a  wide  assortment  of  prepa- 
rations for  the  hair,  face  powders,  manicure  sets  and 
strange  medicines. 

The  headquarters  of  the  Warbler  were  reached  by 
the  private  door  on  the  right  of  this  interesting  shop. 
The  visitor  climbed  a  set  of  steps  to  the  first  floor — a 
passage  pervaded  by  a  very  definite  atmosphere.  Ex- 
perienced people  would  easily  place  that  atmosphere. 
Struck  at  noon,  it  was  obviously  the  tired  aftermath  of 

286 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


a  club  life  that  begins  at  ten  o'clock  each  night  and 
ends  with  the  daylight.  The  set  of  rooms  on  the  first 
floor  were  closed  when  Victor  Ganton  ascended  the 
stairs ;  but  a  much  less  shrewd  man  than  he  was  would 
have  nosed  out  the  fact  that  the  first  floor  of  No.  15 
was  a  night  club  and  that  gaming  was  perhaps  the 
most  innocent  of  its  attractions. 

The  second  floor  had  three  doors  clustered  round  the 
shabby  landing.  On  each  was  printed  the  name — "Ga- 
briel and  Worth — General  Agents,"  while  on  one  door 
a  further  sign  added  the  information,  "Office." 

On  this  door  Victor  Ganton  knocked,  and  a  smart 
typist  querulously  suggested  he  should  enter. 

When  he  reached  the  outer  office  he  found  the  owner 
of  the  querulous  voice  was  a  dark-skinned,  good-look- 
ing young  Jewess,  who,  obviously,  in  her  working  mo- 
ments was  not  too  much  concerned  about  her  personal 
appearance. 

She  looked  up  sharply  as  the  Major  entered,  saw 
him  as  he  seemed,  an  aging,  weak  figure  of  a  man  in 
the  first,  well-brushed  stage  of  the  shabby  genteel,  and 
with  a  sniff  implying  some  contempt  went  on  with  her 
typing. 

The  Major,  leaning  on  the  counter,  stroked  his 
white  moustaches  sadly  and  noted  the  appearance  of  the 
outer  office. 

It  was  a  very  typical  product  of  the  meaner  business 
streets  of  London.  The  furniture  was  cheap ;  the  place 
was  dusty;  the  windows  were  almost  fogged  through 
the  neglect  of  the  cleaner.  An  old  roll-top  desk  was 
in  one  corner  near  the  window.  The  typist  worked  at 
a  smaller  desk,  in  the  center  of  the  room,  the  floor  space 

287 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


of  which  was  divided  from  the  entrance  by  a  counter. 
On  the  walls  were  faded  pictures  of  steamships,  state- 
ments made  by  insurance  companies  indicating  bound- 
less capital,  and,  framed  and  yellowing  under  the 
cracked  glass,  a  photograph  of  the  Bank  of  Eng- 
land. 

The  girl  finished  her  task,  took  out  the  copied  page 
and  looked  at  it  critically.  Then  she  turned  to  the 
man  with  the  heavy  white  moustache. 

"What  d'ye  want  in  this  joint?"  she  asked,  crisply. 
It  was  evident  to  the  Major  the  lady  had  been  im- 
ported from  New  York. 

"Mr.  Gabriel  in  yet?"  asked  the  Major,  politely. 

"No,"  snapped  the  typist. 

"Mr.  Worth,  perhaps — eh?"  he  smiled. 

"Well — if  he  is,"  the  Jewish  girl  asked.  "You  don't 
think  you  can  blow  in  here  and  ask  for  Mr.  Gabriel  or 
Worth,  and  git  in  on  either.  This  would  be  one  busy 
office  if  we  passed  up  every  rubber-stamp  pedler  on 
his  face.  What  d'ye  want?" 

"Mr.  Gabriel  or  Mr.  Worth,"  he  answered.  "I  am 
not  certain  which." 

He  laid  a  card  on  the  table.  As  the  girl  read  the 
penciled  message  her  manner  altered. 

"Say,"  she  said,  sharply.  "You  excuse  me  for  not 
giving  you  the  glad  eye.  I  got  to  watch  some  of  these 
clever  Alicks.  I  put  you  down  as  a  nosey  parker. 
Take  a  seat." 

She  retired  into  an  inner  room  and  was  absent  for 
but  a  few  seconds. 

"Mr.  Worth  will  see  you  in  five  minutes,"  the  girl 
answered,  and  turned  to  resume  her  typing. 

288 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


The  Major  sat  out  five  minutes,  idly  stroking  his 
heavy  moustache.  The  sound  of  talk  going  on  in  the 
inner  room  reached  him  in  a  steady  murmur.  At  the 
end  of  an  interval  the  door  opened.  A  handsome,  dis- 
sipated-looking young  man  in  ostentatiously  good 
clothes  came  out.  He  looked  eagerly  at  the  Major  as 
he  passed. 

"Good-by,  Edie,"  he  called  as  he  walked  through  the 
office.  "See  you  Saturday  night." 

The  Jewish  girl  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"And  say,"  he  called  out,  jerking  his  thumb  over 
his  shoulder  in  the  direction  of  Ganton,  "the  chiefs  say 
the  new  guy  is  to  go  in." 

"This  way,"  the  girl  said,  opening  the  door.  The 
Major,  though  his  temples  were  drumming  a  little,  rose, 
pulled  himself  together  and  then  walked  with  the  list- 
less, furtive  suggestion  of  shabby  gentility  he  could 
command  at  will  into  the  presence  of  the  men  he  knew 
to  be  the  Warbler  and  the  Red  Colonel. 

The  inner  room  into  which  he  stepped  was  better 
furnished.  A  crimson  carpet  was  upon  the  floor.  Two 
highly  colored  easy  chairs  were  in  front  of  a  fire,  a 
little  table  between  them.  A  heavy  boardroom  table 
occupied  the  center  of  the  room.  At  its  head  sat  the 
man  he  now  knew  as  the  Warbler — his  silk  hat  at  the 
back  of  his  head,  a  heavy  cigar  between  his  lips,  his 
brazen  note  of  over-dressing  accentuated  by  the  flash 
of  a  diamond  pin  from  the  pink  knot  that  nestled  in 
the  opening  left  by  a  white  vest  slip. 

"Come  in,"  he  called,  as  the  elderly  soldierly  man 
stood  hesitating  painfully  at  the  door. 

Ganton  walked  to  the  chair  assigned  to  him  at  the 
289 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


big  table  and  near  the  Warbler,  who,  he  argued,  was 
no  doubt  Mr.  Worth. 

In  one  of  the  easy  chairs,  stretching  himself,  was  a 
rough-looking,  heavy  man,  clad  in  blue  pilot  cloth, 
loosely  made,  coarse  and  ill-fitting. 

He  was  poring  over  a  copy  of  a  daily  paper.  On 
the  table  at  his  elbow  was  a  bottle  of  brandy, 
and  a  stiff  peg  had  been  poured  out  into  the  glass 
near  it. 

When  the  Major  entered  the  second  man  looked  up 
quickly,  eyed  the  newcomer  for  a  second  or  two,  and 
then  swung  back  into  his  chair  and  resumed  his  reading. 

Seated,  the  Major  looked  at  the  second  man. 

"I  understood  this  was  a  private  matter,"  he  said, 
and  his  manner  seemed  more  furtive  than  ever  as  he 
met  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Worth. 

The  big  man  at  the  table  laughed. 

"Oh!  don't  be  scared  of  the  other  man,"  he  said, 
easily.  "You  need  not  trouble.  He  is  what  you  would 
call  my  partner — our  Mr.  Gabriel." 

The  man  in  the  easy  chair  stirred,  looked  at  the 
visitor,  raised  the  glass  to  his  lips,  and  lapsed  back  into 
his  former  attitude. 

"Yes — we  are  both  in,"  he  said.  "Our  Mr.  Worth 
will  cough  up  the  story  and  he  is  talking  for  both  of 
us." 

The  Major  nervously  accepted  the  statement  and 
turned  toward  the  man  at  the  table. 

The  Warbler — or  Mr.  Worth — looked  at  him  som- 
berly for  some  seconds,  chewing  at  the  end  of  his 
cigar. 

"You  understood  me  last  night,"  he  said,  in  a  round 

290 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


voice,  almost  musical  in  its  quality.  "I  took  it  you 
would  come  with  us." 

The  Major  stroked  his  white  moustache. 

"I  don't  know  who  you  are  or  what  you  do,"  he  said, 
in  gentle,  deprecatory  tones.  "You  said  you  had  a 
job  for  me.  I  want  one." 

"I  have  made  inquiries  about  you,"  the  Warbler  an- 
swered. "You  are  not  particular — eh?" 

"If  your  inquiries  were  well  directed,  you  must  have 
found  out  I  am  not  particular.  The  times  are  bad  and 
— I  am  getting  old.  A  man  must  live." 

Mr.  Worth  nodded  his  big  Italian  head,  while  Mr. 
Gabriel  stirred  in  the  easy  chair. 

"Hand  him  the  goods,"  said  the  latter,  diving  imme- 
diately into  the  pages  of  the  paper.  "You  are  sure  of 
him,  aren't  you?" 

"Well — here  are  the  chief  points,"  the  Warbler  said, 
at  last.  "We  have  a  game.  It  is  a  trifle  bold,  but  it 
is  easy,  safe,  and  sure.  We  want  a  few  mobsmen  who 
look  like  gentlemen." 

The  Major  spread  out  his  long  hands  nervously. 

"I  was  once  a  gentleman,"  he  said,  submissively.  "I 
try  at  least  to  look  like  one  even  now,  when " 

He  stopped. 

"I  understand,"  replied  Mr.  Worth.  "What  we  ask 
you  to  do  is  simple.  On  Friday  you  will  meet  me  here 
with  all  who  are  in  this — about  a  dozen.  All  you  have 
to  do  is  to  go  to  the  Hotel  Coburg,  on  Saturday  eve- 
ning before  dinnertime,  looking  what  you  used  to  be — a 
gentleman.  You  will  take  a  room — the  floor  we  shall 
give  you.  You  will  have  money — that  we  shall  also  give 
you.  And  you  will  take  the  room,  about  seven  o'clock, 

291 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


as  I  tell  you,  and  remain  there,  dressing  for  dinner. 
You  will  take  time  over  this.  The  essence  of  our  plan 
is  that  you  shall  be  in  the  room  when  the  signal  is  given. 
And  when  the  signal  is  given  you  will  go  straight  to  two 
other  rooms  on  the  same  floor.  You  will  collect  quickly 
all  that  is  valuable  in  these  rooms — and  join  us  here. 
That  is  simple  enough." 

The  Major  stroked  his  moustache  thoughtfully. 

"Very  simple — but  is  it  safe?"  he  asked  at  last. 
"What  happens  when  the  signal  is  given." 

"Pardon  me,"  the  Warbler  answered,  "that  is  our 
secret.  It  is  not  necessary  for  you  to  know  just  that. 
All  I  can  tell  you  is  that  at  the  hour  I  state  the  hotel 
will  be  thrown  into  some  confusion.  You  will  be  able 
to  visit  your  two  rooms  without  trouble  or  risk.  There 
will  be  valuable  jewels  there,  and  you  will  take  every- 
thing— that  is,  everything  easy  to  carry.  And  you  will 
join  us  here.  You  understand." 

The  Major  nodded. 

"Yes — I  think  I  follow  you.  I  would  prefer  to  have 
your  confidence." 

The  Italian  face  smiled. 

"You  are  new  to  us,"  the  Warbler  said.  "You  must 
prove  yourself.  Do  you  accept?" 

The  Major  looked  thoughtful  for  some  seconds. 

"Yes — I  accept,"  he  said  at  last.  "What  is  there  in 
this  for  me?" 

The  Italian  watched  him  closely  as  he  asked  the 
question. 

"A  fair  half  of  all  you  bring  away,"  he  said  signifi- 
cantly. "That  may  be  much  or  little.  It  all  depends 
on  you,  and  the  way  you  go  about  the  work." 

292 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"The  rooms  might  be  empty,"  the  Major  said  slowly 
and  in  his  hesitating  manner. 

"The  rooms  we  give  you  will  not  be  empty.  That  is 
our  part  of  the  lay — the  organization.  You  may  rely 
on  our  instruction — the  rooms  will  not  be  empty.  It's 
up  to  you.  Yes  or  no — do  you  come  in?" 

The  elderly  man  nodded. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  as  one  thinking  aloud,  "I  muso  trust 
you.  Even  if  nothing  comes  of  it,  the  job  will  not  take 
up  the  whole  evening.  I  shall  be  able  to  get  back  to  the 
Cafe  Egypt,  if  the  task  is  not  as  good  as  you  say  it 
will  be.  I  shall  be  able  to  look  after  my  own  little  pick- 
ings." 

The  big  man  in  the  easy-chair  dropped  his  paper 
suddenly  and  glanced  up. 

"Pickings,"  he  said  scornfully,  and  swore  volubly. 
"Why,  there  will  be  handfuls  of  stuff.  I  am  afraid, 
Steve,  he  is  a  little  man.  The  question  is,  can  we  trust 
him  on  a  job  like  this?" 

The  Warbler  turned  in  his  chair. 

"Leave  that  to  me,"  he  answered.  "I  know  my  man 
and  what  he  does.  The  Major  has  worked  by  himself 
and  in  the  little  way.  But  we  teach  him  the  grand 
method.  The  Major  looks  the  part,  and  that  is  half 
the  battle.  What  say  you,  Major?" 

The  white  hand  fondled  the  big  moustache. 

"I  stand  in,"  he  said,  his  tired  voice  shaking.  "But 
what  is  there  in  it  for  me  ?  I  always  expect  to  make  a 
tenner  on  the  Saturday  night." 

The  Warbler  laughed. 

"If  you  do  as  we  tell  you,"  he  answered,  "you  can- 
not fail  to  pull  out  a  hundred.  And,  if  we  have  the 

293 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


luck,  jour  share  may  run  to  thousands.  You  are  on — 
eh?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  be  here  on  Friday,"  Worth  suggested.  "We 
shall  have  a  rehearsal  at  five  o'clock.  I  will  tell  you 
all  the  details  then.  The  rest  is  silence,  you  under- 
stand." 

"Surely,"  said  the  Major,  rising  and  moving  toward 
the  door. 

When  he  had  gone  the  man  in  the  esay-chair  sud- 
denly leaped  to  his  feet. 

"I  tell  you,  Steve,"  he  said  almost  fiercely,  "I  don't 
like  these  outsiders.  That  man  looks  weak." 

"He  is,"  the  Warbler  assented.  "But  I  have  in- 
quired. He  is  an  old  hawk,  and  if  he  is  weak  he's  hun- 
gry. And  we  cannot  find  enough  of  the  right-looking 
sort  for  this  job.  I  know  he  is  safe,  and  if  he  is  hun- 
gry— he  will  do  the  work  all  the  better." 

Outside  the  Major  was  walking  slowly  toward 
Shaftsbury  Avenue,  and  as  he  left  Warden  Street  a 
young  man  lounged  out  of  an  eating  house  opposite  to 
the  premises  he  had  left. 


CHAPTER    XXXI 

ON  the  evening  of  Friday,  the  day  before  the  Sat- 
urday set  apart  for  the  attack  on  the  Hotel 
Coburg,  three  men  met  at  the  offices  of  The 
Daily  Intelligence. 

They  were  Waring,  Victor  Ganton  and  Superinten- 
dent Malone  of  Scotland  Yard. 

Waring  and  Ganton  had  told  all  they  knew  about  the 
Red  Colonel  and  how  far  they  suspected  Gaythorne  of 
being  the  central  .criminal  in  a  group  originally  known 
as  the  Red  Four. 

Ganton  had  been  once  again  to  the  rooms  in  War- 
den Street,  and  had  met  there  a  queer  collection  of  men 
and  women,  who  seemed  to  know  each  other  and  to 
move  to  the  suggestion  of  the  Warbler.  There  was  no 
doubt  in  Ganton's  mind  that  Messrs.  Gabriel  and 
Worth,  the  unobtrusive  general  agents,  who  occupied 
the  shabby  offices  in  Soho,  were  planning  a  coup  at  the 
Hotel  Coburg  which  promised  rich  pickings. 

Superintendent  Malone  had  heard  the  strange  story 
told  by  Waring  and  Ganton  and,  following  the  habit  of 
mind  of  men  of  the  official  class,  had  at  first  seemed 
sceptical.  But  the  chain  of  events  as  they  were  linked 
together  by  Waring  was  convincing  and  had  gradually 
turned  his  mind  from  a  negative  attitude  to  a  belief 
that  the  matter  outlined  to  him  was  worth  serious  in- 
vestigation. The  detective  was  inclined  to  believe  Gan- 
ton's side  of  the  story  was  not  so  trustworthy,  and 

295 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


he  could  not  see  much  significance  in  the  suggestion 
that  a  big  raid  was  to  be  made  on  the  fashionable  hotel. 

"How  do  you  figure  it?"  Malone  insisted,  asking  the 
question  for  the  third  time. 

"You  have  to  take  all  I  know  for  what  it  is  worth," 
Ganton  suggested  with  his  weary,  languid  air.  "I  can 
only  tell  you  what  I  have  been  engaged  to  do.  The 
matter  is  as  clear  as  daylight,  so  far  as  it  goes,  but  it 
certainly  does  not  go  far  enough  to  let  us  into  the 
whole  secret.  I  am  almost  a  stranger  to  the  Warbler 
and  he  has  not  trusted  me  as  fully  as  he  might.  He 
thinks  I  am  a  crook,  and  as  I  can  look  the  part  of  a 
prosperous  hotel  patron  he  has  called  me  in.  But  he 
has  never  worked  with  me  before,  and  is  very  reticent." 

"But  what  is  his  plan?"  Malone  answered  dubiously. 
"It  might  be  just  a  bolt  for  a  certain  room  and  a  hand- 
ful of  jewels.  Certainly  the  scheme  is  not  big  enough 
to  justify  Scotland  Yard  in  getting  excited." 

Waring  spoke  decisively. 

"I  agree  with  Ganton,"  he  said  positively.  "All  I 
know  of  these  men  shows  they  attempt  but  little  on  the 
small  scale.  Ganton  is  right,  Malone.  You  should  be 
on  hand,  and  in  force,  at  the  Hotel  Coburg  on  Satur- 
day night." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Ganton,  "this  is  no  mere  robbery  of  a 
room  in  an  hotel.  I  tell  you,  Malone,  between  the  hour 
of  seven  and  eight  o'clock  the  Red  Colonel  and  the 
Warbler  will  have  not  less  than  a  dozen  confederates 
in  the  hotel — even  if  they  have  no  assistance  among 
the  staff.  And  I  would  point  out  to  you,  the  Hotel 
Coburg  represents  a  big  prize  at  the  present  moment. 
The  King  of  Partonia  is  staying  there  incognito; 

296 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Baron  Rensh,  the  financier,  of  Paris,  is  over ;  and  there 
is  more  than  the  usual  sprinkling  of  American  million- 
aires, to  say  nothing  of  a  famous  Russian  dancer  with 
jewels  representing  the  spoils  of  twenty  affairs,  lying 
about  the  Hotel  Coburg  to-night.  The  venture  would 
yield  enough  to  justify  the  Red  Colonel  and  his  satel- 
lites in  taking  a  big  risk  to  plunder  the  whole  hotel.'* 

"But  what  could  happen?"  asked  Malone,  still  more 
or  less  indifferent. 

"I  don't  quite  see  that  myself,"  Ganton  replied,  his 
tired  smile  breaking  again  over  his  jaded  features. 
"But  I  do  know  there  will  be  something  big  doing.  In 
some  way  known  perhaps  only  to  the  Warbler  and  the 
Red  Colonel,  the  Hotel  Coburg  is  to  be  at  the  mercy 
of  this  group  of  criminals  for  a  few  minutes.  I  am 
not  the  man  who  robs  a  room.  I  am  one  unit  in  a  big 
scheme.  Look  at  this !" 

As  he  spoke  Ganton  pulled  out  the  contents  of  his 
trouser  pocket.  A  stream  of  sovereigns  rolled  on  to 
the  table.  There  were  twenty-five  of  them  in  all. 

"That  shows  willing,"  he  said  significantly.  "It 
means  business  meant.  This  man,  the  Warbler,  gave 
me  that.  I  am  to  go  to  the  Coburg  looking  real  good 
— as  nearly  like  a  gentleman  as  possible,  whatever  that 
may  mean.  And  I  am  to  take  a  room  as  if  I  were  a 
regular  patron  in  the  hotel  and  to  be  there,  dressing 
for  dinner,  at  seven  o'clock.  There  is  to  be  a  signal. 
The  words  are,  'Run,  run.'  When  they  are  shouted—- 
shouted, mark  you,  not  whispered — I  simply  go  out 
and  rifle  two  rooms,  the  numbers  and  plan  of  which  I 
have.  That  may  seem  to  you  like  petty  pilfering.  To 
me  it  looks  as  if  I  were  to  be  part  of  a  huge  concerted 

297 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


effort  to  rifle  the  whole  hotel.  Men  like  the  Warbler 
do  not  part  with  twenty-five  pounds  to  a  shady  crook 
on  the  off  chance  that  he  will  rifle  a  room  or  two." 

The  superintendent  scraped  his  chin  dubiously. 

<rWell,  what  do  you  think  ?"  he  said,  turning  to  War- 
ing, whose  history  of  the  Red  Colonel  most  commanded 
his  respect. 

"I  think  Ganton  is  right,"  he  Answered.  "To-mor- 
row I  should  have  at  least  twenty  men  at  the  Hotel 
Coburg.  I  should  watch  Gaythorne's  house  in  Beddoes 
Street  to  see  when  he  goes  out  and  when  he  returns.  I 
should  keep  an  eye  on  No.  15  Warden  Street  to  see  who 
moves  about  there.  And,  if  I  were  you,  I  should  have 
one  of  your  best  men  in  Beddoes  Street  with  a  car 
ready  to  follow  this  man  Gaythorne.  It  is  important 
for  us  to  know  where  he  alters  his  appearance — where 
he  ceases  to  be  the  man  of  fashion  and  becomes  the 
rough-hewn  criminal  both  I  and  Ganton  know  to  fre- 
quent Warden  Street." 

Superintendent  Malone  rose  from  his  chair,  resumed 
his  hat,  lit  a  cigarette  and  walked  to  the  door. 

Waring  and  Ganton  eyed  him  anxiously. 

"This  is  a  funny  line  of  goods  you  are  handing  out 
to  me,"  Malone  said,  as  he  paused  at  the  door.  "But 
you  have  been  right  often  enough  to  make  me  take  no- 
tice of  the  significance  of  the  story,"  he  added,  ad- 
dressing Ganton.  "As  for  your  friend  Waring,  I  think 
his  theory  of  the  three  murders  stands  more  than  a 
second  look,  and  he  has  some  evidence  to  back  it.  I'll 
take  a  chance  on  your  joint  tip  and  to-morrow  I  will 
be  on  hand  as  Waring  suggests.  I  have  a  notion  there 
will  be  something  doing  after  all." 

298 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Nor  was  the  superintendent  mistaken.  At  six  o'clock 
the  Hotel  Coburg  seemed  to  be  quite  normal.  In  the 
huge  palm  lounge,  the  band  had  finished  playing  the  tea 
hour  out.  A  few  people  still  lingered,  chattering  in 
the  gorgeous  court.  In  the  American  bar,  the  usual 
cosmopolitan  wealthy  males,  by  the  dozen,  were  taking 
parti-colored  drinks  and  passing  world-worn  compli- 
ments to  the  trim  waitresses  who  ministered  to  their 
needs.  The  billiard  room  was  busy,  perhaps  un- 
wontedly  so.  In  the  spacious  entrance  hall  guests  were 
coming  in  and  out  of  the  revolving  doors — some  arriv- 
ing, others  departing  or  returning  from  eager  quests 
into  the  shopping  centers. 

Then  came  a  lull  in  the  busy  routine  of  the  fashion- 
able Hotel  Coburg.  Those  staying  in  the  hotel  were 
killing  the  time  between  the  afternoon  and  dinner — 
that  no-man's  hour  when  the  women  have  retired  or 
are  retiring  to  their  rooms  to  contemplate  evening 
toilets,  and  the  men  dawdle  about,  over  letters,  even- 
ing papers,  billiards  or  gossip,  before  adopting  the 
white  shirt  front  of  a  more  or  less  blameless  night  life. 

Only  the  management  knew  the  staff  had  been  aug- 
mented by  twenty  representatives  of  Scotland  Yard — 
men  who  were  distributed  about  the  hotel  as  servants, 
guests  and  loungers  and  pursued  their  allotted  roles, 
unostentatiously,  but  always  with  a  close  eye  on  the 
life  going  on  about  them  in  the  busy,  opulent  hotel. 

Inside  the  manager's  room  were  three  men  in  even- 
ing clothes.  They  were  Cyril  Dudenay,  the  blonde 
manager,  Stanley  Waring  and  Superintendent  Malone. 

Waring  was  perhaps  the  only  embarrassed  member 
of  the  party.  He  was,  in  a  great  measure,  responsible 

299 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


for  the  extraordinary  precautions  that  had  been 
taken  to  test  Victor  Ganton's  theory.  The  two  men 
who  kept  him  company  did  not  conceal  their  belief 
that  Ganton  had  overstated  the  dangers  of  the  situa- 
tion. 

By  seven  o'clock  the  dead  hour  of  the  hotel  was 
over.  Things  began  to  quicken  up.  A  few  ladies,  stay- 
ing in  the  hotel,  appeared  about  the  hall  and  in  the 
corridors,  in  luxurious  evening  gowns.  More,  escorted 
by  cavaliers,  in  the  conventional  black  and  white,  be- 
gan to  throng  in  from  the  world  outside.  The  hall,  the 
corridors,  the  various  public  rooms  commenced  to  fill 
up.  The  buzz  of  conversation  grew  into  a  steady 
drone ;  one  heard  the  sound  of  tinkling,  feminine  laugh- 
ter and  the  lower  guffaw  of  the  male;  the  orchestra 
began  to  play  for  dinner;  the  pace  of  a  huge  staff  of 
waiters,  in  court  costumes,  quickened. 

Inside  the  little  room  used  by  the  manager  overlook- 
ing the  entrance  hall,  the  three  men  waited,  all  a  little 
excited,  but  two  distinctly  irritable  and  sceptical. 

"Everything  seems  to  be  all  right,"  Dudenay,  the 
hotel  manager,  said  smilingly.  "Same  old  Coburg — 
same  old  company." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Malone,  almost  diffidently.  "I  am 
afraid  we  are  putting  you  to  a  lot  of  trouble  on  a  sort 
of  wild  goose  chase.  Still,  it  is  better  you  should  not 
take  chances." 

"Sure,"  agreed  Dudenay,  still  smiling  with  his  pro- 
fessional zeal  and  looking  quizzically  at  Waring,  as  he 
offered  a  box  of  cigars  to  the  superintendent. 

"Wait,"  said  Waring  decisively.  "I  may  be  wrong 
and  Ganton  may  be  wrong.  But,  at  least,  the  signifi- 

300 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


cance  of  what  we  have  gathered  justifies  the  Hotel  Co- 
burg  in  taking  precautions  to  protect  its  guests." 

They  remained  together  in  the  little  room  surveying 
the  busy  hall,  themselves  unobserved  by  the  people 
passing  in  and  out.  As  the  minutes  dragged  on,  Du- 
denay  grew  a  trifle  flippant  and  more  and  more  in- 
clined to  belittle  the  precautions  taken.  Malone,  a 
typical  official,  became  more  irritable  under  the  smil- 
ing scorn  of  the  hotel  manager.  Only  Waring,  who 
knew  the  Red  Colonel,  maintained  a  composure  that 
corresponded  with  the  serene  faith  he  had  in  his  own 
and  Ganton's  judgment. 

"There  goes  Ganton,"  he  said  at  last,  and  the  two 
men  joined  him  in  the  survey.  Ganton,  resplendent  in 
new  tweed  clothes,  had  entered  the  hall  followed  by  a 
porter  with  luggage.  He  looked  exactly  what  the  War- 
bler had  wanted  him  to  seem — a  prosperous,  elderly 
military  man.  He  was  bargaining  for  a  room  with  a 
reception  clerk,  in  a  bored,  tired,  feeble  manner,  and 
walked  to  the  lift,  as  if  the  transaction  had  displeased 
him. 

"One  swallow  does  not  make  a  summer,"  Dudenay 
said  ironically,  meeting  the  detective's  eye. 

"No;  but  there  is  a  second  swallow  and  perhaps  a 
third,"  Waring  said,  the  stern  set  of  his  face  carrying 
conviction. 

"Gaythorne,"  the  manager  ejaculated  as  he  looked 
in  the  hall.  "And  yet  his  appearance  cuts  no  ice.  He 
comes  here  often." 

"Humph!  Who's  the  lady  and  the  man  with  him?" 
asked  the  detective. 

"Ah !"  said  the  manager  suddenly,  and  unaccount- 
301 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


ably  alarmed.  "That  is  different.  As  a  rule  we  know 
Gaythorne's  guests,  but  the  people  with  him  are 
strangers  to  me." 

The  party  had  scarcely  passed  out  of  the  hall  when 
Waring  clutched  Malone's  arm. 

"See,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "the  Warbler,  and  the 
man  I  saw  coming  out  of  the  offices  in  Warden 
Street." 

The  detective  did  not  know  the  Warbler,  who  looked 
more  theatrical  than  ever  in  his  evening  clothes,  the 
heavy  collar  of  his  fur-lined  overcoat  turned  up.  But 
Superintendent  Malone's  attention  had  stiffened  at  the 
sight  of  the  other  man. 

"Dudenay,"  he  said  crisply,  "Waring  and  Ganton 
are  both  right.  There's  dirty  work  afoot.  Whether 
that  is  the  Warbler  or  not,  I  know  the  buck  with  him. 
I  know  enough  of  him  always  to  expect  trouble  when 
Chicago  Alf  appears  in  public." 

As  he  spoke  he  touched  a  bell.  One  of  his  own  men 
in  waiting  in  the  next  room  appeared  suddenly  and 
silently. 

"Who  are  the  two  men  going  through  the  hall?"  he 
asked,  pointing  out  the  Warbler  and  his  companion. 

The  officer,  who  was  masquerading  as  an  inter- 
preter, surveyed  the  pair  pointed  out  to  him. 

"Nix — the  big  cove.  I've  never  seen  him.  But  the 
second  is  Chicago  Alf,"  he  said  positively.  "I  didn't 
know  he  was  in  London." 

"Watch  them,"  Malone  commanded  with  stern 
brevity. 

A  clerk  came  into  the  room,  responding  to  a  sum- 
mons by  Dudenay. 

302 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"How  many  rooms  have  been  engaged  since  six- 
thirty  ?"  Dudenay  asked. 

"Fifteen."  The  clerk  withdrew  as  he  spoke  in  re- 
sponse to  a  sign  from  his  manager. 

"That's  odd,"  said  Dudenay,  turning  to  the  detect- 
ive. "There  is  something  different  about  the  Hotel 
Coburg  to-night." 

"Why?"  asked  Malone. 

"Well,  as  a  rule,  the  hours  in  which  the  fewest  rooms 
are  let  are  between  six  and  eight  o'clock.  Half  a  dozen 
arrivals  usually  cover  the  time,  as  far  as  people  engag- 
ing rooms  are  concerned." 

Dudenay,  as  he  spoke,  began  to  gnaw  the  end  of  his 
cigar.  The  impossible  story  outlined  by  the  detective, 
from  Ganton's  warning,  was  beginning  to  sound  true, 
even  to  his  ears. 

The  minutes  dragged  away  and  nothing  unusual  hap- 
pened. The  three  men  remained  in  the  little  room, 
looking  on  the  great  entrance,  gay  now  with  the  ar- 
rival of  many  evening  parties.  The  manager's  mind 
had  cast  off  the  spell  of  uneasiness,  and  he  was  still  in- 
clined to  return  to  his  former  attitude  and  to  make 
light  of  Waring's  fears  and  Malone's  preparations. 
The  appearance  of  the  man  he  called  Chicago  Alf  had 
stiffened  Malone.  He  seemed  now  more  suspicious  than 
either  of  the  two  other  spectators  of  the  strange 
drama.  Waring  still  watched  and  waited,  but  he  could 
not  have  outlined  just  the  incidents  he  expected.  The 
clock  in  the  hall  softly  chimed  the  third  quarter  after 
seven. 

Suddenly  Waring's  face  grew  grim  with  the  concen- 
tration of  a  man  who  hears  a  startling  sound. 

303 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


Above  the  murmur  of  the  busy  hotel,  as  if  the  sound 
came  from  one  of  the  galleries,  a  few  whistled  notes 
were  piped  clear  and  high.  Despite  the  heavy  scented 
atmosphere,  they  took  Waring  back  to  the  stillness  of 
Wayside  Lodge.  He  had  heard  that  whistled  bar  of 
music  rendered  on  two  sinister  nights,  and  the  Warbler 
had  sung  the  same  notes  in  a  beautiful  tenor  voice  out- 
side his  own  house. 

"Listen,"  he  said,  his  face  rigid,  his  manner  impres- 
sive and  compelling  the  attention  of  the  two  men.  "You 
may  believe  or  not,  just  as  you  like.  It  will  not  alter 
the  situation.  I  have  heard  that  call  before  twice,  and 
each  time  a  man  died.  The  Red  Colonel  has  given  the 
signal.  The  very  air  you  breathe  reeks  of  a  danger  I 
cannot  outline." 

Dudenay  stopped  smiling.  The  detective  ran  toward 
the  hall.  As  if  to  confirm  Waring's  fears,  a  liveried 
servant  stood  in  the  big  hall,  looking  upward,  sniffing 
the  scented  atmosphere  of  the  big  hotel. 

"Something  is  burning,"  he  murmured,  and  moved  off 
toward  the  carpeted  stairs. 

A  wreath  of  smoke  drifted  across  the  dome-like  open- 
ing round  which  the  staircase  wound. 

The  easy-going,  opulent,  contented  atmosphere  of 
the  fashionable  hotel  was  shot  with  a  sudden  frenzy. 

A  woman's  voice  beat  the  dead,  still  air. 

"Fire !  fire !"  she  screamed.    "Fire !  fire !  fire !" 

Dudenay  turned  pale  and  began  to  run  up  the  stairs 
after  the  waiter  who  had  watched  the  first  wisp  of 
smoke  drift  through  the  lighted  dome. 

Malone,  at  Waring's  elbow,  swore  fiercely. 

"Run,  run,"  he  called  to  a  man  near  him,  giving  the 
304 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


very  signal  the  criminals  had  selected.  As  Waring  fol- 
lowed him  the  corridors  of  the  hotel  seemed  to  stream 
with  people.  Up  and  down  the  passage  men  were  dash- 
ing, crying  out  the  phrase  the  detective  had  used.  The 
signal  Ganton  had  to  obey,  the  words  "run,  run,"  set 
the  whole  hotel  into  horrible,  panic-stricken  motion. 
The  Red  Colonel  had  called,  fire  was  his  weapon,  and 
the  great  hive  of  lazy  wealth,  the  Hotel  Coburg,  boiled 
with  hot,  unreasoning  madness,  and  seemed  suddenly 
turned  into  a  hive  of  bees  at  swarming  time.  The  panic 
of  the  many  put  the  people  in  the  hotel  at  the  mercy 
of  the  few  who  remained  cool  before  the  unexpected 
frenzy. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

IN  that  mad  welter  men  and  women  lost  their  heads. 
Waring,  hurrying  up  the  stairs,  now  the  nature 
of  the  impending  calamity  was  discovered,  found 
himself  acting  clearly  and  coolly.  The  manager,  Du- 
denay,  despite  his  bland,  easy-going  appearance,  sud- 
denly revealed  the  qualities  of  leadership  that  had 
marked  him  out  for  his  position.  A  brigade  call  had 
been  immediately  given  and  he  had  collected  as  many 
male  attendants  as  he  could  find.  With  them  he  was 
following  in  the  train  of  the  detective,  Superintendent 
Malone,  who  was  moving  as  quickly  as  possible  to  the 
first  floor  to  meet  Ganton. 

Ganton  reached  the  floor  almost  as  soon  as  Malone 
had  completed  the  ascent.  His  white  moustache  had 
gone,  and  all  the  aged  indifference  peculiar  to  the 
Major.  Clad  in  evening  dress,  he  was  knotting  a  white 
cambric  tie  as  he  ran.  His  tired  manner  had  disap- 
peared. He  moved  rapidly  and  spoke  with  crisp  de- 
cision, forming  a  striking  contrast  to  the  habitual 
drawl  he  usually  employed.  The  perspiration  was 
running  down  his  face,  though  outwardly  he  was  the 
calmest  man  playing  a  part  in  that  exciting  scene. 

"Ah!  Malone,"  he  said,  speaking  rapidly.  "You  see 
the  how  of  it — they've  fired  the  third  floor,  in  the  east 
wing — the  first  bedroom  floor.  All  below  are  reason- 
ably safe,  I  should  fancy.  Get  the  people  moving  down 
until  the  firemen  come.  Then  bring  your  men  and  as 

306 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


many  of  Dudenay's  staff  as  you  can  get.  We'll  stand 
at  the  main  entrance  with  a  bunch  of  your  fellows. 
Every  man  I  point  out  to  you  must  be  stopped.  And 
Dudenay  should  get  into  the  corridors  and  hold  up 
every  man  he  sees  coming  out  of  a  bedroom." 

The  manager  of  the  hotel  and  Malone  nodded  curtly, 
and  turned  to  their  men  to  give  the  necessary  orders. 

By  now  panic  had  the  hotel  in  its  grip.  Outside  the 
clang  of  bells  announced  the  arrival  of  the  fire  brigade. 
The  helmeted  figures  tore  into  the  hotel,  looked  up  at 
the  smoke-laden  dome  and  rushed  toward  the  stairway. 
Guests  on  the  lower  floor  had  tumbled  out  of  the  res- 
taurant, the  dining-room  and  the  various  lounges. 
They  were  all  eagerly  and  excitedly  crowding  the  hall 
and  looking  up  into  the  dome  where  now  a  dense  vol- 
ume of  smoke  was  drifting  across  from  one  of  the 
higher  corridors  and  fogging  the  white  lights.  Almost 
as  they  looked,  the  lights  upstairs  began  to  disappear. 
Some  one  remained  cool  enough  in  all  the  panic  to  turn 
the  lights  off  one  by  one.  The  smoke  was  drifting 
through  the  bedroom  floors.  Men  were  tramping  up 
and  down  the  corridors  giving  the  alarm  of  fire.  The 
rooms  were  pouring  out  their  occupants  into  the  dark 
passages.  Women,  scantily  clad,  with  hair  streaming, 
or  partially  dressed,  seized  such  articles  of  clothing  as 
they  could  and  bolted  from  the  rooms  to  the  passages. 
Some  appeared  clutching  their  jewel  boxes.  One  lady, 
who  wore  a  man's  overcoat  over  her  body  linen,  was 
screaming  a  promise  of  hundreds  of  pounds  to  the  hotel 
porter  who  would  go  back  and  save  her  forgotten 
string  of  pearls. 

Upstairs  passage  and  corridors  were  in  wild  disor- 
307 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


ider.  People  struggled  for  the  right  of  way  and  fought 
for  precedence.  In  the  melee  one  woman  went  down 
and  was  trampled  upon.  It  was  Ganton  who  forced 
the  crowd  to  give  way  and  set  the  woman  on  her  feet 
again.  Everywhere  was  the  tramp  of  feet.  Above  the 
clamor  could  be  heard  the  shrill  screams  of  women. 
Now  and  again  peals  of  high-pitched  feminine  laughter 
— the  strident,  terror-laden  sounds  of  hysteria — gave 
to  the  riot  and  disorder  about  the  hotel  the  grim  hor- 
ror of  an  inferno.  Men  swore,  some  softly,  others  at 
the  top  of  their  voices,  and  struck  out  savagely  as  they 
tried  to  force  clear  passages  for  the  women  in  their 
charge.  Instead  of  the  soft  music  of  the  hotel  band, 
now  silenced,  there  came  the  steady  throb  of  fire  engines 
at  work  outside.  Above  all  was  to  be  heard  the  noise 
of  splintering  glass  and  the  beating  of  hammers  on 
doors,  while  without  warning,  a  flood  of  water,  pumped 
into  the  higher  rooms,  began  to  gush  down  the  stairs 
and  dribble  through  the  thick  velvety  carpets  on  the 
steps. 

It  was  almost  impossible  to  follow  the  movements  of 
staff,  police  and  firemen  through  this  panic-stricken 
chaos.  Some  of  the  men  were  trying  to  fight  the  fire. 
Many  were  seeing  to  the  personal  safety  of  the  people 
in  the  hotel,  so  maddened  by  the  sudden  alarm  as  to  be 
unable  to  take  care  of  themselves.  A  few,  with  Ma- 
lone  and  Ganton  at  their  head,  watched  at  the  main 
exit  from  the  third  floor,  while  a  more  resolute  gang 
searched  the  corridors  away  from  the  small  fire  zone. 
And  downstairs,  in  the  manager's  office,  a  trembling 
clerk  was  telephoning  Malone's  instruction  to  the 
watcher  at  No.  15  Warden  Street  to  stop  all  who  en- 

308 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


tered  the  premises  in  Soho  and  hold  them  until  he  ar- 
rived. 

Waring  stood  at  the  bend  of  the  staircase  leading 
from  the  restaurant.  He  was  watching  acutely  for  the 
appearance  of  Gaythorne.  Sometimes  he  helped  to  mar- 
shal the  passing  crowd.  At  other  intervals  he  eased 
the  strain  for  a  woman  who  had  become  wedged  against 
the  polished  staircase.  The  water  dripping  from  above 
fell  upon  him,  and  his  hair  and  linen  grew  sodden.  But 
he  remained  waiting,  and  always  his  resolute  eyes  were 
on  the  restaurant  door. 

The  time  seemed  long,  but  it  was  only  a  matter  of  a 
few  minutes.  The  people  in  the  restaurant  were  the 
slowest  to  move.  Not  in  any  great  danger,  they  were 
impelled  to  go  ".on  eating  to  the  last  moment  as  a  dis- 
play of  courage— a  superb  display,  grotesque  when  its 
quality  was  compared  with  the  slight  element  of  dan- 
ger there  was  to  be  faced  by  those  on  the  ground  floor. 

Gaythorne  alone  was  one  of  the  last  to  leave  the 
gorgeous  apartment.  He  stood  looking  upward  at 
the  dome  for  a  moment  and  then  turned  and  walked 
rapidly  up  the  stairs.  His  eyes  seemed  to  see  every- 
thing, though  he  passed  quickly.  Waring  followed 
resolutely  behind. 

Up  the  stairs  went  Gaythorne,  past  Malone  and 
Dudenay,  and  along  to  the  bedroom  floors.  After  him 
went  Waring  like  a  shadow,  unnoticed  among  the  crowd 
of  jostling  people. 

Gaythorne  seemed  to  know  every  part  of  the  hotel. 
He  turned  at  the  third  floor,  away  from  the  fire  zone, 
as  if  he  knew  the  wing  to  which  the  destruction  was 
confined.  Once  round  the  corner  he  stopped.  Waring, 

309 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


hanging  back,  saw  Gaythorne  rumple  his  hair,  tear  off 
the  white  collar,  and  wind  a  handkerchief  round  his 
neck.  Dabbling  his  hands  in  the  water  oozing  every- 
where, Gaythorne  smeared  his  face. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  corridor  Gaythorne  stood  and 
whistled  the  bar  of  music,  the  summons  that  had  meant 
death  to  Paul  Copeland. 

The  sound  had  no  sooner  died  away  than  from  the 
opposite  corridor  the  figure  of  a  man  came  running. 
Of  exceptional  bulk,  he  was  breathing  heavily  and 
coughing,  half  strangled  by  the  smoke,  and  at  first 
could  not  speak  clearly.  Even  in  the  darkness,  when 
the  man  did  speak,  Waring  had  no  difficulty  in  recog- 
nizing the  Warbler  by  the  sound  of  his  voice.  His  very 
words  were  significant. 

"It's  coming  out  splendidly,"  he  said,  in  staccato 
jerks,  but  his  voice  was  almost  a  howl  of  triumph. 

Gaythorne's  voice  sounded  like  the  snarl  of  a  dog. 

"Coming  out  splendidly,  be  damned,"  he  said.  "We 
are  pocketed.  Some  one  has  sold  us.  Is  it  you — you 
Italian  dog." 

"I  say  all  is  going  well."  The  Warbler  spoke  again 
and  the  note  of  triumph  rose  and  swelled.  "Chicago 
Alf  has  cleared  out  the  dancer's  rooms.  Talk  about 
stones,  why,  if  he  has  a  pound  he's  got  a  fortune." 

"Cut  it,"  barked  Gaythorne.  "Alf  won't  get  out  of 
here  with  the  goods.  Some  one  has  sold  us,  I  say." 

The  man's  odd  earnestness  chilled  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  Warbler. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  asked,  his  rich  voice  waver- 
ing. 

"Why,  that  every  exit  is  alive  with  traps,"  Gay- 
310 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


thorne  answered.  "That  crook  you  pulled  in  at  the 
last  minute — your  man — is  on  the  stairs  pointing  every 
one  of  the  gang  out  as  he  passes  to  old  Malone  of  Scot- 
land Yard.  He's  a  trap  himself — your  man !  He's  put 
it  on  us.  We  shall  be  lucky  if  one  of  our  men  gets 
away.  I  came  up  to  settle  with  you." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Colonel?"  asked  the  Warbler, 
his  voice  suddenly  developing  an  icy  edge.  "If  I  may 
die  I  did  not  know." 

"You  did  not  know,"  growled  the  Red  Colonel. 
"You  must  know — you  brought  him  in.  God!  if  I 
thought " 

He  stopped  and  looked  behind  him.  A  dull  red  glare 
showed  behind  in  the  corridor.  Dense  clouds  of  smoke 
were  drifting  toward  them.  The  hiss  of  water  plashing 
on  fire  told  of  the  firemen  at  work  behind  the  lurid 
patch. 

"Cut  off,"  the  Warbler  said,  and,  seeing  another  man, 
Waring,  in  the  passage,  turned  to  bolt. 

"The  fire  escape,"  the  Red  Colonel  shouted. 

They  ran  down  the  next  corridor.  A  door  in  the 
wall,  opening  outward,  yielding  to  their  pressure.  The 
two  men  were  out  on  the  iron  frame  that  went  down- 
ward into  the  big  gloomy  well  of  the  quadrangle.  By 
their  manner  it  would  seem  they  expected  to  find  it 
there. 

They  were  poised  on  the  dizzy  steps  some  way  below 
Waring,  who  was  following  slowly.  He  heard  their 
voices  drifting  upward  to  him.  They  had  stopped  in 
the  perilous  descent,  the  Warbler  three  steps  below  the 
big  figure  of  the  Red  Colonel,  his  face  turned  upward 
and  catching  the  light  from  a  window. 

311 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"Some  one  has  sold  us,"  the  Red  Colonel  kept  on  re- 
peating irritably.  "There'll  be  damned  ugly  inquiries 
after  this.  God  pity  you  if  I  find  your  man,  the 
Major,  was  in  this  with  you!" 

The  Warbler's  voice  rose  high. 

"Mark  yourself!"  he  shouted  fiercely.  "I'm  not  the 
knocker.  If  it  comes  to  selling — there's  been  enough 
dirty  work  already,  and  it  has  not  been  mine.  Who 
did  Cunning  in?  Cunning  was  all  right." 

"Go  on,  you  dog — get  down,"  growled  the  Red 
Colonel,  "and  mind  what  you  say,  or,  by  the  living  God, 
I'll  throw  you  off  the  iron  staircase." 

"Bah!  Spit  out  your  fury,"  the  Warbler  taunted. 
"If  we've  been  sold  I  did  not  sell.  You  are  more  likely 
to  do  the  double  cross.  You  put  the  blame  on  Cunning 
for  Copeland.  You  put  him  away.  You  put  a  line 
on  me  for  Mark  James'  end  with  that  cub  Waring,  and 
you  hid  behind  that  damned  alibi  for  your  night's  work. 
It  seems  to  me  we  all  take  risks  but  you — these  days 


Waring  could  see  the  bold  Italian  face.  It  was  no 
longer  smiling.  The  teeth  were  bared  in  ferocious  an- 
ger as  he  turned  with  a  growl  to  go  down  the  iron 
steps. 

Waring,  surprised,  watched  the  two  men  quarreling. 
He  realized  the  jealousies  of  these  criminals,  split  up  by 
a  traitor  in  the  past  and  no  longer  trusting  each  other. 
Softly  he  went  down  the  staircase  a  full  flight  of  steps 
behind  them.  They  seemed  concentrated  on  their  own 
grievances,  oblivious  to  his  presence  on  the  steps,  possi- 
bly taking  him  for  some  panic-stricken  patron  of  the 
hotel.  Looking  down  on  them  as  they  went  jerkily 

312 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


along  the  dizzy,  winding,  iron  framework,  Waring  saw 
the  Red  Colonel  suddenly  leap  upon  the  man  going 
down  the  stairs,  three  steps  below  him. 

"You  know  too  much,"  he  hissed,  fastening  himself 
on  the  man.  The  two  wrestled  in  a  clinch  upon  the 
frail  footway  for  a  few  seconds,  broken  only  by  their 
heavy  breathing.  The  advantage  of  position  was  with 
the  Red  Colonel. 

"For  the  love  of  God,  man,  ease  up,"  panted  the 
Warbler  at  last.  "We'll  both  be  over.  Let's  get  out 
of  this.  We  can  settle  this  barney  after." 

"No;  we'll  settle  now,"  the  Red  Colonel  said,  with 
a  gasp,  "here,  on  the  spot." 

By  a  fierce  effort,  Gaythorne  threw  all  his  weight 
upon  the  man  struggling  two  steps  below  him  and,  with 
a  sudden  application  of  impetus,  sent  the  Warbler  fly- 
ing headlong  down  the  steep  pathway.  The  man's 
body  hurtled  through  the  air,  scarcely  bumping  the 
steps,  until  it  was  brought  up  sharp  against  the  next 
platform  a  full  story  below.  The  flight  ended  with  a 
thud  that  jarred  the  crazy  steps.  The  Warbler 
moaned  slightly  as  his  bulk  crashed  on  the  iron  sup- 
port, but  his  body  did  not  stir. 

With  rapid  springs  the  Red  Colonel  followed  down 
the  steps  and  peered  at  the  still  figure  of  the  prostrate 
man.  Then,  by  an  effort  of  sheer  strength,  he  lifted 
the  bulky  form,  poised  it  high  over  the  railings,  and, 
with  a  swing,  sent  the  Warbler  to  his  doom.  Without 
pity  or  mercy,  he  flung  the  man  over  the  railings,  leav- 
ing the  body  to  fall  through  space,  until  it  struck  the 
glass  work  of  the  palm  lounge  a  hundred  feet  below. 

"The  dog — he  was  beginning  to  bite.  He  knew  too 
313 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


much,"  Gaythorne  was  saying  aloud,  as  if  speaking 
the  thought  surging  in  his  mind.  And  at  that  mo- 
ment he  seemed  to  become  conscious  of  Waring's  fol- 
lowing presence  on  the  stairs. 

With  a  bound  Gaythorne  went  down  the  remaining 
steps.  Waring  followed  as  rapidly  as  he  could  and  was 
gaining.  The  man  stopped  in  his  tracks.  There  was  a 
flash  of  light  in  the  darkness.  A  bullet  impinged  on  the 
iron  railing  behind  Waring.  Another  flash,  and  War- 
ing heard  the  bullet  whistle  near  his  own  ears.  A  third 
explosive  flash  and  the  arm  Waring  was  using  to 
steady  himself  on  the  stairway  turned  helpless  and 
seemed  to  have  grown  suddenly  hot  and  cold. 
Blood,  sticky,  damp  and  warm,  flooded  over  his  white 
hand. 

He  shouted  with  the  sudden  pain.  The  figure  be- 
low laughed  wildly  and  continued  to  run  recklessly 
down  the  steps  until  Gaythorne  was  on  the  ground  floor 
in  the  basement  of  the  hotel.  When  Waring  followed 
he  found  himself  going  through  a  door  leading  to  the 
kitchens.  The  man  in  front  had  disappeared  in  the 
gloom.  Panting,  his  sobbing  breath  almost  choking 
him,  Waring  threaded  his  way  through  the  winding 
passages,  and  after  many  vain  turnings  found  himself 
ascending,  and  a  few  moments  later  vaguely  realized  he 
was  now  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  hotel. 

He  thrust  open  a  door  and,  blinking  with  surprise, 
found  himself  in  the  dazzling  light  of  the  main  entrance 
hall,  still  in  confusion,  crowded  with  people,  some  now 
laughing,  for  the  worst  of  the  nightmare  panic  was 
over. 

Waring  ran  up  the  main  stairway  to  the  first  floor. 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Malone  and  Ganton  were  still  there,  watching  the  last 
people  come  from  the  upper  parts  of  the  hotel. 

"God,  old  man,  have  you  seen  a  ghost?"  Ganton 
asked,  looking  into  Waring' s  working  face. 

Malone's  eyes,  fixed  on  the  motionless  arm,  saw  the 
stain  of  the  dripping  blood. 

"You  are  hurt,"  he  said  anxiously. 

"Only  a  trifle,"  Waring  answered,  the  hawklike  ex- 
pression of  the  hunter  more  pronounced  upon  his  pale 
features,  his  eagerness  to  strike  aroused  and  implaca- 
ble. "Out  of  this,"  he  urged.  "Never  mind  me.  It's 
only  a  scratch.  But  the  game  is  up.  Gaythorne,  the 
Red  Colonel,  has  gone.  Follow  him  with  me.  We'll 
try  for  him  at  32  Beddoes  Street.  It  is  our  last 
chance." 

The  two  men,  comprehending  his  meaning,  turned  to 
speak  rapidly  to  the  officers  about  them,  and  at  once 
followed  Waring  out  of  the  hotel  and  into  the  street,  a 
dozen  plain  clothes  men  running  at  their  heels. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

AT  a  few  minutes  before  nine  on  the  Saturday 
night,  about  the  hour  the  panic  ended  at  the 
Hotel  Coburg,  the  house  Number  32  gloomed 
in  Beddoes  Street  without  betraying  any  signs  that  it 
was  occupied. 

Almost  as'  the  clock  was  striking  the  hour,  a  car  tore 
(down  the  street,  and  drew  up  opposite  Mr.  Gay- 
thorne's  residence.  That  worthy  dropped  quietly  out 
of  the  car,  spoke  a  word  or  two  to  the  chauffeur,  and 
with  a  latch  key  entered  the  house.  A  man  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road,  slowly  walking  along  the  pave- 
ment, noted  the  car  and  moved  swiftly  from  the  door. 

As  soon  as  Gaythorne  entered,  the  interior  showed 
visible  signs  of  the  owner's  presence.  A  light  appeared 
in  the  room  on  the  first  floor  where  Waring  had  inter- 
viewed him  and  other  rooms  of  the  house  seemed  also 
to  spring  into  life. 

Within  ten  minutes  two  taxi-cabs  turned  the  corner 
of  the  street  and  stopped  gome  distance  away  from 
Number  32. 

The  first  car  discovered  the  presence  of  Waring, 
Ganton  and  two  plain  clothes  officers.  Five  others 
were  aboard  the  second  car,  and  one  of  these  men  was 
Superintendent  Malone. 

He  appeared  to  have  instructed  the  men  with  whom 
he  had  traveled,  for  they  quickly  dispersed. 

Malone  strode  up  to  Waring,  Ganton  and  the  two 
316 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


other  officers  and  they  remained  for  the  space  of  half 
a  minute  conversing  in  the  street.  As  they  did  so,  in 
response  to  a  sign  from  Malone,  the  man  idling  about 
when  Gaythorne's  car  drove  up  crossed  over,  and  made 
a  report  as  to  who  had  passed  into  the  suspected  house. 

"That  settles  it,"  Malone  said  crisply.  "He  is  in 
and  we  may  as  well  go  for  him  at  once." 

They  walked  quietly  to  the  door  and  Malone  pulled 
vigorously  on  the  bell. 

Promptly  the  door  was  thrown  open  by  the  man 
Waring  knew  as  Delane.  He  hesitated  when  he  saw  so 
many  men  at  the  entrance,  and  seemed  about  to  close 
the  door.  Superintendent  Malone  stepped  forward  and 
forced  him  back. 

"That  will  do,  my  man.  I  am  Superintendent  Ma- 
lone," he  added  crisply.  "I  want  to  see  Mr.  Gay- 
thorne.  Wilson  and  Green,  you  will  wait  in  the  hall. 
I  will  go  up  with  my  two  friends." 

Malone  did  not  leave  Delane  to  go  forward  alone. 
He  went  up  the  steps  in  the  wake  of  the  servant,  Gan- 
ton  and  Waring  following.  As  soon  as  Delane  reached 
the  room  he  tapped  on  the  door  and  announced  Malone. 
They  heard  the  noise  made  by  some  one  stirring  in  the 
apartment.  Then  Waring  recognized  Gaythorne's 
voice.  Smooth  and  suave,  he  was  giving  the  servant  in- 
structions. 

"Ask  Superintendent  Malone  to  come  in,"  he  said 
briefly. 

The  door  was  thrown  open  and  the  officer  walked 
forward.  Waring  and  Ganton  followed  him  into  the 
room.  Their  invasion  of  the  apartment  received  a 
check  when  they  saw  the  occupant.  Malone  bit  his 

317 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


lip    doubtfully.      Waring    could    scarcely    believe    his 
eyes. 

Seated  in  a  deep  leather  chair  before  the  fire  was 
Gaythorne.  Stanley  had  seen  him,  stained  by  the 
water,  and  deliberately  making  his  appearance  more 
disheveled.  He  had  also  just  returned  from  that  peril- 
ous altercation  on  the  fire  escape.  But  there  was  noth- 
ing in  his  manner  to  suggest  any  kind  of  adventure — 
creditable  or  discreditable.  He  turned  lazily  in  the 
chair,  arched  his  eyebrows  with  some  surprise  as  he 
saw  three  men  in  the  place  of  the  one  announced  and 
rose  slowly.  He  was  dressed  carefully — not  a  stain  or 
a  mark  upon  his  clothes  or  linen,  not  a  detail  of  his 
appearance  disheveled.  A  half-smoked  cigarette  was 
gripped  easily  between  his  fingers.  A  tumbler,  on  a 
small  polished  table,  was  partially  filled  with  whisky 
and  soda.  A  tray,  with  coffee,  stood  upon  the  same 
table,  and  had  evidently  been  used.  Gaythorne  looked 
to  all  intents  and  purposes  what  he  pretended  to  be — a 
man  of  fashion  who  had  dined  quietly  at  home.  Only 
Waring,  who  knew  the  man  well,  realized  that  the  ac- 
centuated droop  of  the  snarling  lower  lip,  despite  the 
man's  smiles,  was  a  plain  indication  of  rising  anger. 

"This  is  rather  an  unwarrantable  intrusion,"  he  said 
easily,  his  voice  perfectly  assured. 

Superintendent  Malone,  whose  confidence  was  visibly 
shaken,  recovered  himself  quickly. 

"The  police  have  to  take  chances,"  he  said  bluntly, 
"and  we  may  make  mistakes.  If  our  intrusion  is  a  mis- 
take, we  are  here  on  a  purpose  you,  as  a  law-abiding 
man,  should  be  the  first  to  condone.  If  you  resent  what 
may  be  an  error,  you  will  have  a  remedy." 

318 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


Gaythorne  bowed,  with  a  cynical  smile  upon  his 
face. 

"I  think  the  presence  of  Dr.  Waring  indicates  the 
nature  of  your  error.  Still,  since  you  are  here,  I  am 
prepared  to  hear  your  reasons  for  a  course  of  action 
that,  at  first  sight,  seems  to  be  a  studied  insult." 

The  four  men  stood  confronting  each  other,  for  a 
few  seconds,  amid  a  dead  silence.  Neither  Malone, 
Ganton  nor  Waring  had  expected  to  find  Gaythorne 
prepared  to  carry  the  war  to  them  so  uncompromis- 
ingly. Waring,  knowing  the  man's  cleverness,  was 
wondering  how  far  Gaythorne  was  prepared  to  meet 
the  evidence  he  was  now  able  to  offer. 

"I  am  here  to  ask  you  to  account  for  your  move- 
ments since  the  hour  of  six  o'clock,"  Malone  suggested 
tersely. 

Gaythorne  smiled. 

"Before  I  do,"  he  said  calmly,  "I  shall  want  a  good 
reason  for  meeting  your  wishes.  Had  you  not  better 
formulate  precisely  what  is  in  your  mind." 

Superintendent  Malone  eyed  his  man  squarely. 

"I  am  investigating  a  bold  plan  to  plunder  the  Hotel 
Coburg  this  evening.  I  have  some  reason  for  believing 
the  origination  of  the  plan  is  concerned  with  ia  band 
of  cosmopolitan  criminals  called  the  Red  Four.  I  am 
particularly  anxious  for  any  light  that  may  be  shed 
upon  their  leader — the  Red  Colonel." 

Gaythorne's  expression  did  not  change,  but  the  pu- 
pils of  his  eyes  narrowed  and  his  underlip  jutted  sig- 
nificantly. 

"And  so  you  force  yourself  into  my  house,"  he  said 
ironically.  His  head  went  well  back,  his  straight  frame 

319 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


bristled  and  his  next  words  were  a  deliberate  challenge. 
"I  presume  you  think  I  am  this  Red  Colonel." 

"Yes,"  Malone  said  sternly.  "We  may  be  mistaken, 
but  that  is  precisely  our  line  of  thought.  You  may 
volunteer  such  explanation  as  you  choose  to  make,  but, 
in  any  case,  I  am  prepared  to  go  to  the  length  of  de- 
taining you,  until  the  whole  of  the  incidents  of  the 
evening  are  satisfactorily  cleared  up." 

"Humph,"  Gaythorne  ejaculated,  looking  smilingly 
from  one  face  to  another. 

He  seemed  to  hesitate  for  a  moment  and  then  ap- 
parently made  up  his  mind. 

"Suppose  I  say  I  have  not  been  out  to-night — that  I 
have  dined  here?"  he  asked. 

"I  should  reply  that  I  myself,  Waring  and  Dudenay, 
the  manager,  saw  you  at  the  Hotel  Coburg,"  Malone 
replied. 

"What  you  saw  would  not  be  very  satisfactory  evi- 
dence against  the  word  of  a  man  of  position,  his  per- 
sonal servants  and  the  friend  who  joined  me  at  dinner," 
Gaythorne  said  pointedly.  "You  cannot  connect  me 
with  anything  outside  the  life  you  see  me  leading 
here." 

"We  should  have  to  take  the  risk,"  Malone  answered 
grimly.  "I  should  go  further,  too,  and  suggest  you 
were  at  the  Hotel  Coburg  with  a  convicted  criminal, 
Chicago  Alf.  And  I  have  proof  that  you  have  been 
out,  for  one  of  my  men  saw  you  come  back  here." 

The  other  laughed  easily. 

"Who  is  Chicago  Alf?"  he  asked  banteringly. 

"We  have  him  in  custody  now,"  Malone  said.  "At 
least  he  is  no  vision." 

320 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


"So !  I  deny  all  knowledge  of  him,"  Gaythorne  re- 
plied, the  smile  fading  from  his  lips. 

"We  do  not  rest  our  case  entirely  on  that,"  Malone 
said.  "In  addition  to  your  share  of  to-night's  work, 
Ganton  and  Waring  can  prove  seeing  you  at  15  War- 
den Street  with  the  Warbler." 

"Who  is  this  Warbler?"  asked  the  Red  Colonel,  with 
superb  effrontery. 

"The  man  you  threw  off  the  fire  escape  in  the 
quadrangle  of  the  Hotel  Coburg,"  Waring  said.  "I 
have  a  little  souvenir  of  our  meeting  to-night." 

As  he  spoke  Waring  held  up  his  slightly  wounded 
arm,  now  neatly  bandaged. 

"A  pretty  story,"  Gaythorne  sneered,  but  his  face 
paled. 

"It  is  not  the  only  story  we  depend  upon,"  Malone 
answered.  "Waring  is  prepared  to  state  he  actually 
saw  you  on  the  night  Cunning  was  murdered  at  Way- 
side Lodge,  overheard  your  conversation,  and  was  pres- 
ent at  Cunning's  murder." 

The  other  staggered  as  if  he  had  been  struck. 

"A  lie — a  damned  lie.  I  have  an  alibi.  I  was  at  a 
dance  that  night."  Gaythorne  spoke  angrily,  and  the 
easy  smile  of  the  nonchalant  man  of  the  world  had  left 
his  face.  He  was  frowning  heavily.  The  bird-like, 
wavering  eyes  of  the  man  flickered.  The  heavy  under- 
lip  hung  out,  dog-like,  the  teeth  showing  wet  under  the 
moustache. 

"Waring  seems  to  know  much,"  he  said,  after  a 
pause.  "I  deny  all  knowledge  of  Cunning's  end.  There 
is  no  proof  that  he  is  even  dead." 

"The  mere  announcement  of  identification  by  Waring 
321 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


will  bring  the  police  hot  on  jour  tracks,"  Malone  in- 
sisted. 

Waring  smiled  into  the  other's  angry  face  as  the 
wandering  eyes  flickered  over  the  three  faces  of  the  ac- 
cusing men. 

Gaythorne  stood  before  them,  a  man  at  bay  at  last. 
He  had  ceased  to  pretend  he  was  unconcerned.  He 
looked  with  an  anger  he  could  not  conceal  at  each  of 
the  three  men  in  turn,  but  when  his  eyes  rested  on  War- 
ing's  grim,  smiling  face  his  rage  became  almost  malevo- 
lent. 

"It  is  a  tissue  of  falsehoods,"  he  snarled.  "This 
man,  Waring — who  will  believe  his  far-fetched  story? 
And,  even  if  it  were  true,  who  is  to  connect  me  with 
this  extraordinary  tale?  I  have  lived  in  London  too 
long  as  a  man  of  good  repute  to  be  caught  by  a  chain 
of  facts  so  vague.  The  world  would  believe  me — you 
would  have  to  prove  my  connection  with  these  men  be- 
yond doubt." 

"And  that  we  can  do,"  Malone  said,  spreading  a 
banknote  on  the  table.  "That  is  the  print  of  the  hand 
of  the  man  who  murdered  Paul  Copeland." 

"I  know,"  sneered  Gaythorne,  looking  on  the  blood- 
smeared  sheet.  "And  it  has  one  finger  missing,"  he 
added  meaningly.  "Cunning  had  that  finger  miss- 

ing." 

"Cunning,  the  night  he  died,  accused  you  of  leaving 
that  print  to  incriminate  him,"  Waring  said  sternly. 
"But  the  print  was  made  by  you.  We  dare  you  to  put 
another  print  of  your  hand  side  by  side  with  it." 

"A  lie,"  Gaythorne  insisted.  "The  hand  is  Cun- 
ning's— it  shows  the  missing  finger." 

322 


"The  hand  is  yours;  we  have  already  compared  the 
print  with  another." 

"You  have  no  print  of  my  hand,"  Gaythorne  sneered 
boldly.  "You  cannot  have  compared  my  hand  with  this 
banknote  clew." 

Waring  drew  from  his  pocket  a  small  parcel  and  out 
of  it  took  the  photographic  print  marked  "The  Red 
Colonel"  handed  to  him  by  Paul  Copeland. 

"That  is  a  print  of  your  hand,  too,"  he  said  simply. 

"We  challenge  you  to  show  a  print  of  your  own 
hand  against  the  two,"  Malone  urged  calmly. 

"And  even  then — I  deny  everything,"  Gaythorne 
shouted.  "I  fight  you  point  by  point  and  trust  to  my 
social  position  to  pull  me  out  of  this  web  of  lies.  You 
cannot  make  either  judge  or  jury  believe  there  is  any 
direct  association  between  myself  and  these  shady  men 
and  their  criminal  actions.  I  fight  you — lie  for  lie." 

"We  shall  fight  your  lies  with  a  truth  for  each  one," 
Malone  said  sternly. 

"Yes,  and  if  we  fail,  a  lie  will  convict  you — a  lie  that 
will  prove  your  direct  association  with  Copeland," 
Waring  said,  a  gleam  of  triumph  in  his  eyes.  "You  are 
in  possession  of  the  proceeds  of  robberies  by  the  Red 
Four.  The  treasure  for  a  clew  to  which  you  hunted 
Copeland  to  his  doom,  and  murdered  Cunning,  is  in 
your  actual  possession  now.  The  oddest  point  in  this 
strange  web  is  the  most  damning  one,  although  it  is 
not  truthful  evidence.  If  we  cannot  bring  you  down 
with  the  truth,  we  shall  wing  you  by  a  lie  that  seems 
to  have  been  uttered  by  an  avenging  God  of  Fate." 

Both  Ganton  and  Malone  stared  at  Waring  in  ex- 
treme surprise. 

323 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


Gaythorne  turned  a  shade  more  pale,  but  his  nerve 
only  wavered  an  instant. 

"The  man  is  mad,"  he  said  irately.  "I  have  none  of 
this  treasure.  Why,  for  years  I  hunted  the  world  for 
Copeland  to  find  it.  You  would  never  have  heard  of 
me,  but " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  and  moistened  his  dry,  hang- 
ing underlip  with  his  tongue. 

Waring  laid  out  the  design  found  with  Paul  Cope- 
land's  papers. 

"That  is  the  clew  to  the  hidden  booty,"  he  said 
calmly.  "Look  at  it  closely,  Malone,  and  watch  your 
prisoner." 

They  looked  on  the  sheet  with  its  strange  design 
marked  with  the  letters  "Fl.  32  Bed.  R.  M."  It  was 
meaningless  to  both  Ganton  and  Malone.  But  the  Red 
Colonel,  gazing  intently,  his  bird-like  eyes  almost 
standing  out  of  his  head,  broke  out  into  a  cold  per- 
spiration. 

"God,"  he  said,  "what  devil's  luck!  The  mantel- 
piece P' 

"Watch  him,"  said  Waring,  for  Gaythorne,  with  ris- 
ing anger,  was  moving  suspiciously. 

Malone  stood  slightly  behind  Gaythorne  so  that  his 
every  movement  was  under  the  detective's  observation. 

Waring  walked  to  the  fireplace  in  the  room. 

"Look  at  this  design,"  he  said,  holding  out  the  bris- 
tol  board  and  displaying  the  drawing.  "And  now  look 
at  the  central  panel  in  this  stone  mantelpiece." 

They  looked,  Ganton  and  Malone  surprised,  the  Red 
Colonel  almost  purple  with  anger. 

"What  does  it  mean  ?"  asked  Ganton. 
324 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


"Why,  that  this  drawing  is  a  reproduction  of  the 
central  panel  of  that  mantelpiece.  Copeland  lived  here 
and  his  treasure  is  buried  behind  the  panel.  The  let- 
ters and  figures  Fl.  32  Bed.  R.  M.,  have  only  one 
meaning.  Floor  1,  32  Beddoes  Street,  right  medallion. 
You  will  observe  that  in  either  corner  of  the  design  are 
two  medallions — one  on  the  left  and  one  on  the  right. 
This,  another  of  Copeland's  hoarded  secrets,  is  the 
charm  likely  to  reveal  the  treasure." 


'As  Waring  spoke  he  produced  Copeland's  key,  the 
top  of  which  was  button-shaped  and  strangely  carved 
• — an  exact  reproduction  of  the  medallion  carved  as  a 
Idecoration  on  the  center  panel  of  the  mantelpiece. 

Standing  there,  Waring  reached  for  the  poker. 
With  the  heavy  knob  he  struck  the  right  medallion 
sharply  upon  its  edge.  It  was  not  part  of  the  solid 
block  of  marble  and  came  away  in  one  piece  to  War- 
ing's  delight,  for  it  proved  the  truth  of  a  theory  he 
had  formed  from  a  glimpse  of  the  mantelpiece  as  he 
had  seen  it  the  day  he  visited  Gaythorne.  And  under 
it  was  an  aperture  just  big  enough  to  admit  the  key. 
Waring  fumbled  a  minute  through  over-eagerness,  but 
the  key  fitted  the  lock.  Turned  slowly,  it  released  a 

325 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


spring  and  the  whole  of  the  central  panel  swung  open, 
a  cunningly  contrived  door,  revealing  an  aperture  be- 
hind. Thrusting  in  his  uninjured  hand,  Waring  began 
to  pull  out  the  various  objects  he  touched.  One  of  the 
first  articles  he  handled  was  a  case  which  when  opened 
contained  a  string  of  black  pearls,  obviously  worth  a 
fabulous  sum.  Another  was  a  roll  of  canvas,  which, 
when  spread  out,  was  certainly  the  Rembrandt  stolen 
twenty  or  more  years  before  from  the  French  Louvre. 
From  the  small  boxlike  aperture  in  the  mantelpiece 
Waring  quickly  transferred  the  treasure  of  the  Red 
Four  stolen  by  Copeland,  for  which  so  many  lives  had 
been  sacrificed — chiefly  jewels  of  priceless  value,  scin- 
tillating brightly  as  they  met  the  light  after  their 
tempting  fires  had  been  hidden  for  so  many  years. 

The  most  interested  man  in  that  room  was  Gay- 
thorne.  His  face  had  paled  before,  but  now  his  lips 
whitened.  His  eyes  flickered  passionately  as  he  real- 
ized he  had  sat  before  the  hidden  treasure,  day  by  day, 
for  years,  and  yet  had  not  known  it — a  painfully  gall- 
ing thought.  His  breath  came  in  short,  sharp  spasms, 
as  if  he  were  in  an  agony  of  pain.  His  lower  lip  hung, 
flecked  with  the  froth  of  a  consuming  anger. 

"That's  good  enough  for  me,"  Malone  said.  "Gay- 
thorne,  I  take  a  chance  on  you,  for  I  am  going  to  hold 
you  as  the  Red  Colonel." 

"That  devil,  Waring,  knew  this  all  the  time,"  Gay- 
thorne  almost  shrieked,  beside  himself  with  rage. 
"Well,  damn  him,  if  I  sink,  he  shall !"  With  a  sudden 
movement,  he  drew  a  heavy  revolver,  and  poised  it  to 
cover  Waring.  Ganton  was  only  just  in  time  to  knock 
the  weapon  upward.  The  noise  of  the  explosion  jarred 

326 


THE   RED   COLONEL 


the  room  and  the  bullet  splintered  the  glass  over  a 
hanging  picture. 

Malone,  from  behind,  wrenched  the  weapon  out  of 
the  man's  grip.  As  he  did  so,  Gaythorne  stepped  two 
paces  back,  slipped  his  hand  into  his  waistcoat  pocket, 
tore  open  a  little  blue  paper  and  swallowed  its  contents, 
a  white  powder. 

"You  shall  not  take  me,"  he  said,  with  a  ghastly 
smile  upon  his  working  face.  "The  Red  Colonel  goes 
free.  You  may  wait  and  watch  the  Red  Colonel  go 
free." 

Nor  had  they  long  to  wait,  for  the  deadly  poison 
worked  quickly.  Gaythorne's  face  grew  purple  and 
knotted  as  if  he  were  being  strangled,  and  what  was 
once  a  king  of  crime,  after  a  series  of  convulsive  move- 
ments, suddenly  sat  still  in  the  easy-chair  he  had  sunk 
into  immediately  after  swallowing  the  powder.  The 
Red  Colonel  died  from  the  poison  he  had  taken  in  sight 
of  the  secret  resting  place  of  Paul  Copeland's  buried 
treasure. 


Little  remains  to  be  told.  The  majority  of  those 
concerned  in  the  attack  on  the  Hotel  Coburg  were 
taken,  either  in  the  hotel  or  at  15  Warden  Street.  The 
body  of  the  Warbler  was  found  badly  mangled  soon 
after  the  panic  had  subsided  in  the  quadrangle  of  the 
hotel.  Chicago  Alf,  taken  red-handed,  told  all  he  knew, 
but  it  was  not  a  complete  history  of  the  movements  of 
the  Red  Four. 

The  central  fact  that  did  emerge  was  that  Gay- 
thorne, the  Warbler,  Copeland  and  Cunning  were  the 

327 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


Red  Four.  The  nature  of  their  quarrel  was  never 
known,  for  there  was  no  one  to  tell.  But,  whatever  had 
happened  to  cause  the  break,  Copeland  had  apparently 
made  off  with  the  bulk  of  the  treasure,  and  had  tried 
to  put  away  the  rest  of  his  associates.  The  three  who 
were  betrayed  had  hung  together,  in  the  hope  of  get- 
ting a  line  on  the  missing  treasure,  then  unnegotiable, 
but  had  lived  and  worked  with  growing  distrust  of  each 
other.  Their  first  trace  of  Copeland  had  been  to  find 
him  living  openly  in  London,  installed  in  Beddoes 
Street,  where  he  had  hidden  his  treasure.  When  Cope- 
land  decamped,  Gaythorne  had  taken  the  house,  believ- 
ing if  he  remained  there  long  enough  the  owner  would 
return.  The  history  of  their  final  discovery  of  Cope- 
land  and  the  incidents  leading  to  their  repeated  at- 
tempts to  recover  track  of  the  booty  is  familiar  to  the 
reader. 

Three  days  later,  after  inquiry  and  investigation, 
Ganton  sat  down  to  write  what  proved  one  of  the  big- 
gest stories  The  Daily  Intelligence  ever  published ;  the 
details  form  the  framework  on  which  your  author  has 
built  this  yarn.  And  on  the  Sunday  following  the  Red 
Colonel's  end,  Waring  telephoned  to  Missingham,  and 
spoke  to  Vesta  Copeland.  Her  anxiety  turned  to  joy 
when  she  heard  the  last  of  the  terrible  Red  Four  had 
perished. 

The  treasure  was  given  up  voluntarily  by  Waring. 
Vesta  had  her  own  income  preserved  to  her  through 
the  shrewdness  of  the  dead  lawyer,  Mark  S.  James. 
Before  the  end  of  the  summer  she  married  Waring. 
Stanley  went  into  private  practice  and  became  a  pro- 
fessional worker,  whose  routine  was  and  still  is  a  fight 

328 


THE   RED    COLONEL 


with  a  greater  social  enemy  than  the  Red  Colonel 
— Time,  the  destroyer,  who  takes  toll  upon  us  all. 
Sometimes,  as  a  rest  from  the  jading  round  of  medi- 
cal practice,  Waring  and  his  pretty  wife  go  to  the 
concerts.  Occasionally,  a  well-known  tenor  will  sing 
an  equally  well-known  air  from  an  old  classic  opera. 
As  its  last  bars  die  away,  Waring  and  his  wife  will  sit, 
holding  each  other's  hands,  strangely  moved,  perhaps  a 
little  chilled  with  recollections  of  horrors  they  cannot 
forget.  The  air  in  the  last  lines  recalls  again  to  both 
the  rough  man  who  slouched  down  the  lonely  road  by 
Wayside  Lodge,  whistling  as  he  went,  on  the  night  of 
the  first  murder,  and  once  more  Waring  sees  the  figure 
of  the  Warbler,  as  he  stood  outside  the  school-house, 
trolling  the  Red  Colonel's  signal,  and  waiting  to  bar- 
gain for  the  secret  due  to  the  stolen  fortune  of  the  Red 
Four. 


THE    END 


(1) 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000128391     o 


